


Oh, What a Tangled Web

by shenanygans



Series: The Whip Hand Chronicles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Case Fic, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Femlock, Multi, Oral, Rape, Riding Crop, Rope Bondage, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenanygans/pseuds/shenanygans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks ago, I found myself in the very unfortunate position of losing someone I cared for. My personal assistant, who was also a dear companion and one of my personal subs, died under suspicious circumstances.  I hadn’t seen her for some time, but I knew exactly who I needed to help me figure out what the blundering idiots at ‘The Yard’ were missing. </p><p>That’s how I recently found myself on Sherlock Holmes’ doorstep. Despite her love of playing hard to get, she wasn’t difficult to find - her address and hours of operation on the business card that had taken up permanent residence on my desk since our first… encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is taken directly from and RP I've done with the lovely Fandomlife on Tumblr. Ian also has his own personal blog on tumblr called ianwhiphandadler and he would love it if you paid him a visit.
> 
> As I've already mentioned, this is straight from the RP with little alterations so there might be a few errors in it. I beg your forgiveness, but we were too lazy to edit it all.

“Sherlock!” John called out, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation, “I thought we had come to an agreement. Your body parts go on the bottom shelf of the fridge. I nearly just spread pus onto my toast.” Which of course made him completely lose his appetite altogether. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa in her dressing gown, freshly showered but in no way prepared for the day.

“My mistake. Put it back where it belongs, will you?” She then returned to her newspaper, hoping that something interesting would catch her eye. With a heavy sigh, John did as she asked knowing she’d forget to do it and then he would be in the same situation the next morning. Honestly, that woman….That was when the doorbell rang. Two rings. Sherlock’s looked up.

“Client.” She smiled and retreated to her bedroom to get dressed. “Get the door, John.” And like the good doctor and friend he was, he did.

Ian Adler was normally a very calm, collected man. But he had enough weight on his shoulders to justify being nervous, pacing a bit as he waited for someone to answer the door at 221 Baker Street. He was in his battle dress, sharp suit and leather gloves, a bit of normality to give him the confidence he needed to make this housecall. He had wanted to see Sherlock Holmes again, their two impromptu sessions leaving him amused, perplexed, and far more sated than he’d been in quite some time. He wanted to see her, but far sooner than this, and under much different circumstances.

When he heard the door to the flatshare being unlocked, he put on his mask of cool, seductive confidence, fully expecting the beautiful detective to be the one answering the door. He faltered, albeit barely, when a shorter, sandy-haired man answered the door. Boyfriend? Husband? Christ. Another lonely housewife looking for a thrill, he allowed himself to think bitterly for a moment. No, no, Sherlock was different. Get your shit together, Adler, you look like a complete knob standing here, he hissed at himself. The entire thought process had only taken a second, but it was a second of hesitation that took a ring out of his armor.

“Ah, hello, I’m Ian Adler, I’m here to see Ms. Sherlock Holmes? I have a case I believe I need her assistance with,” he said finally. John narrowed his eyes. He obviously wasn’t from the government or else it would have been Mycroft who would have showed up (and he would have just walked right in). Mafia then? Sherlock never took cases from them, though. He wished he could see what she saw when she looked into people.

“Right, this way please.” John opened the door wider to let Ian through and lead him upstairs to the sitting room. “Please take a seat. Would you like some tea?” He always tried to be polite to the clients, especially since Sherlock’s character could be intimidating to them. And she was rude.

Ian followed the man up the narrow stairs and into the disheveled but homey flat. It was the polar opposite of what he envisioned for the consulting detective, and yet it fit perfectly. He took a seat in the comfortable-looking, modern leather chair next to the fireplace, crossing his legs neatly and resting his casefile on his lap.

“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” he replied as he looked around the room. It was a quirky mix of college student and mad scientist, with the books and science equipment and paperwork scattered hither-and-to, the Cluedo board stuck to the wall with a knife, the bull’s skull with the headphones, and the skull on the mantle.

“I apologize for not calling first. Ms. Holmes has a tendency of dropping by unannounced, though, so I didn’t think she’d mind a bit of similar treatment.” John was in the process of putting the kettle on when Ian spoke. He stopped.

“You two have spoken before?” he asked, looking back up. Who was this man and why would Sherlock have gone to him. More than once even. Even though John had only known Sherlock for less than two years now, he knew that she had a very, very small circle of friends and acquaintances. He thought he knew them all. Ian couldn’t help feeling a little flash of pride. He was her dirty little secret, hadn’t even told her live-in that she’d been to him, much less what he’d done to her.

“Ms. Holmes consulted with me regarding a case approximately six months ago. Purely professional, although as I said she did have a tendency to drop in unannounced.” Vague enough to keep her secret, honest enough to not be deceptive, he thought. He was a professional, knew a lot of people in varying positions throughout London, and knew enough about each of them to ruin them if he ever got it in his mind to. He wasn’t the malicious, malevolent sort though, and actually couldn’t bear the thought of causing a domestic, so he kept Sherlock’s secret vaulted away with all the rest.

Sherlock needing a consultation from this man? What did he know that she didn’t. Mr. Adler certainly was well off and carried the demeanor of a business man with high end clients. John could also tell the man was hiding something. Living with Sherlock kept him very well trained in spotting a lie.

“Interesting,” he said, bringing back a tray with the tea set up. Three cups for when the detective would finally show up. “By the way, I’m John Watson. I’m Sherlock’s partner.” he said, handing Ian a cup of tea. Partner. That word carried a number of connotations. Professional partner, romantic partner, sexual partner, all of which could be possible with Sherlock Holmes.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mister Watson,” he said with a smile of practised ease. He took his cup with his left hand and offered his right to shake. “Interesting indeed,” he volleyed smoothly. He debated whether or not to be catty and bring up the fact that Sherlock had never mentioned a partner, but he needed her help and it wouldn’t do any of them any good if he did something to upset her before he had a chance to plead his case. He would save that for another day, in the event that he would need leverage to get under John Watson’s skin.

John gave him a firm shake, keeping eye contact. From her bedroom, Sherlock finally emerged impeccably dressed. Except for the look of complete surprise on her face. If John had been sitting in Ian’s chair, he would have seen it. However, she quickly brought up her mask of cool indifference.

“Mr. Adler,” she said, taking a seat on the sofa. “You have a case for me.” That could be the only reason he was here. He couldn’t have been foolish enough to have come here for a personal visit. Right? While he hadn’t stood to shake John’s hand, he set his cup and saucer aside and stood up for Sherlock.

“Ms. Holmes. Pardon my intrusion, but I do have a case for you.” He found his mask of cool collection slip just a bit at the sight of her - On one hand he’d missed having her in his office, on the other hand he did very desperately need her help for a case that had hit entirely too close to home. He cleared his throat, tucking his casefile under his arm to remove his gloves and reach for her hand. “It’s lovely to see you again regardless of circumstances. Hopefully your work hasn’t been whipping you too terribly hard as of late,” he said as his eyes met hers, the faintest smirk appearing in the corner of his lips.

“Not at all,” There wasn’t a hint of a reaction to his well placed slip. She shook his hand and then snatched the case file, gracefully falling back onto the sofa to read through it. “Though I’m sure your employees have been as they work for you.”

“Only the ones who are truly asking for it,” he responded, returning to his place in the soft leather seat. He couldn’t help but smirk internally at the subtle bristling coming off of the partner, John, as they exchanged something of an inside joke. He was a bit disappointed that she hadn’t reacted at all, but then she was as professional as he was. As he sat and watched her flip through the file, he frowned and the character of Mr. Adler fell away as Ian, the man, came forward.

“Sherlock… It’s Jeremy. He’s dead. Murdered. Barely any clues, none that Scotland Yard could find. They’re calling it a random act of violence.” Jeremy, who’d been Ian’s faithful assistant, companion, and sub for over five years, failed to report to work and wasn’t taking calls or texts. About the time he started to become truly concerned, a report on the news stated that a body had been found on the south bank of the Thames, near where Jeremy’s flat was. His heart sank and he knew instantly who it was.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, her eyes glued to the case file. It was the actual police file and the personal files on Jeremy’s home life. How Ian got all of this on his own, she wasn’t going to ask. After all, his business did give him the opportunity to pull a few strings if he ever needed to. John had watched the exchange with keen interest. It wasn’t just Ian that was hiding something.

“Was Jeremy an employee of yours? What did his job—” Sherlock interrupted him. “Not important.” She put the file down and leaned forward, finally looking Ian in the eyes again. Now she could handle it. Her walls were solid and the panic she had felt when she stepped out was calmed. “What is important though, is if he had any personal relationships with any of your clients.” It was a start and Ian could safely reveal that information without explaining what exactly he /did/ to his clients.

Ian pressed his lips into a thin line, sighing. He put his gloves back on, almost out of nervous habit, needing to hide behind his uniform to give him the strength to discuss the case.

“Jeremy Matthew Calum Edwards, aged twenty-nine, in my personal employ just over five years. He was my assistant and companion and I was quite fond of him. He was efficient, reliable, personable, and dedicated. To my knowlege he hadn’t been carrying on any relationships with any of my clients, however he was not exclusively beholden to me except in the professional sense,” he offered with an air of quiet reverence.

Companion. That gave John some relief. So Ian was gay. Good. Then he chastised himself for being a total arse while the man’s lover just died. Now wasn’t the time.

“Are you completely sure about that?” Sherlock said, pulling out one of the papers from the file, “How about professionally then? There are several transactions in Jeremy’s account that don’t match with his salary. He was being paid several thousand pounds a month from another source. One that suspiciously has no trail back to the original account.”

Ian wanted to be completely sure. Jeremy was such a lovely soul, such a good sub, and seemed so genuine. But he was also a man who wore many masks and could slip in and out of character at the drop of a dime so he couldn’t be foolish enough to believe that things were exactly as they seemed. With a hesitant shake of his head, he sighed again.

“No. I can’t be completely sure. Jeremy and I spent a considerable amount of time together both professionally and personally, however what he did on his own time was his own time. We never discussed matters outside of work or our own arrangement.”

“Then I’ll need to see his flat. I might find a lead there,” Sherlock stood up and went to grab her coat. Then she stopped. “You wouldn’t happen to have the keys to it, would you?” She was so used to simply breaking into the victim’s flats and their associates that sometimes she forgot others might have a key.

“I do have a key to his flat, yes,” he replied as he stood up. He gave Sherlock a look, one of concern - Would the partner be coming along on this jaunt? He wasn’t ashamed, not by a long shot, but to let Sherlock into Jeremy’s home would certainly expose his lifestyle and by proxy, Ian’s. Would she want her partner to see that? Were they the sort of partners that would be affected by it? He cleared his throat and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It’s in quite a state of disarray, the police have already been through it.”

“And they would have, of course, missed everything,” Sherlock said, shrugging on her coat. John got up and put the tea in the kitchen. He then went to get his own coat, expecting to come along as well. “John, I want you to head over to Ares National Bank and set up an account there. Tell me everything you see when I get back.”

“What? No, I’m going with you,” John said, “Who knows if the killer will come back to the victim’s apartment. Remember The Spider, Sherlock? I’m not going to let you run off there alone. We can stop at the bank later.”

Ian wanted to protest, but it was entirely up to Sherlock how much she wanted to expose her partner to his lifestyle. The sandy-haired, unassuming, average-in-every-way man (Honestly, what exactly did Sherlock see in him?) was in for a nasty shock once he learned about who his partner had been throwing her lot in with lately. He lifted an eyebrow at the mention of ‘The Spider’, and his mouth quirked in curiosity, but he remained silent while the pair sorted out their plans.

“Then Mr. Adler will accompany me. He might even notice something off in Jeremy’s flat.” John just stared at her. She’s actually taking a client with her?

“John,” she continued, “I need you to do this for me. Time is of the essence.” Finally, he had to relent.

“Alright, Sherlock.” That gave her some relief. John couldn’t know…..He wouldn’t understand.

“Ms. Holmes will be safe in my presence, Mr. Watson,” Ian finally said, silently thankful that John wouldn’t be accompanying them. Jeremy’s flat had indeed been turned upside down and he didn’t want any more strangers tromping through his personal life than was strictly necessary. In Sherlock, he had an intelligent, calculating, respected and respectful resource that would help him find Jeremy’s killer. In John…he had a blank slate that was quickly shaping itself into a prickly little ball of blinding jealousy. It was distracting and annoying and not what he needed right now.

John stepped out with them onto the street and headed for the Tube. Right now, his priority was to help Sherlock with her case. He knew she could handle herself well in a fight but still…he worried for her. She did have a self-destructive personality after all. There would be time to talk to her about this Adler fellow later. While John ambled off toward the Baker Street tube station, Ian gestured to the silver Audi A7 parked across the street.

“Cabs are easy enough to come by, but I thought we’d take mine for this trip.” He removed the keyfob from his pocket and unlocked the doors, waiting until they were both seated in the car to let the mask fall away again. “I truly appreciate your help with this, Sherlock. And I apologize if my presence is going to cause strife with your … partner.” He started the car, giving a sigh as his gloved hands rested on the wheel. “Jeremy was dear to me and I would hate to think that he’d thrown in his lot with someone that meant him harm. I’d be doubly hurt if I learned that his being killed was the result of living under a false pretense, either in my life or in his own.”

“We won’t know until I get a look at his flat.” Sherlock wasn’t one to coddle. She trusted that Ian would be able to handle it. “And pay no attention to John. He never likes it when he feels like he’s the only one in the room that doesn’t know something.” She smirked, “That usually is the case though. He should be used to it by now.” Sherlock noted how Ian paused when he said ‘partner’. What did he think of her and John’s relationship?

Ian gave a half-smirk as he pulled away from the curb and into the flow of traffic, mentally mapping out the trek from their location in NW1 to Clapham.

“Well there was certainly a rather considerable ‘something’ that John wasn’t aware of, so I suppose he did have cause to become rather bristly.” He paused, remembering how amusing he found it at first. “Still, I’m glad you sent him on an errand, as I’ve no doubt you deduced that Jeremy’s lifestyle would be plainly visible in his flat, linking him directly to me, of course, which would have given away our little secret. And I’m not a master of deduction like you are, but I get the distinct impression that your John wouldn’t have appreciated finding out about that.”

“Or it’s because I actually needed him to check out the bank.” Sherlock said coldly. She was still shaken by how close it had been for everything to be revealed. If Ian wasn’t as clever as he was, he might have inadvertently let slip that they were….what? What were they? Sherlock closed her eyes. It was all too complicated and it didn’t matter anyway. Best to focus on the case at hand. But he was right, she didn’t want John with her at the flat.

“All the same, I would rather not have exposed Jeremy’s life to any more eyes than are necessary so I’m glad to only be in your company,” he responded, a bit soberly after hearing the tone in her voice. John meant something to her, regardless of their relationship status, that much was evident. Whoever the man was, he was lucky to have a force of nature like Sherlock Holmes in his life.

Sherlock nodded and waited for them to arrive at the crime scene. It had taken an obscene amount of time to get to south London and to Jeremy’s flat. Traffic on one bridge and construction on another had them doubling back and turning an eighteen-minute drive into nearly an hour. The ride had been in relative silence except for the exchange of possible alternate routes suggested between the Dom and the Detective and finally after much stress and swearing, they arrived at a lovely little two-story townhouse nestled just north of Clapham Commons, Jeremy’s residence taking up the upper floor.

Once inside, she understood exactly how exposed Jeremy’s lifestyle would have been. Though his clothes had been returned to their original place, all of the victim’s toys had been taken out and lined out. There was an impressive collection of ropes, whips, handcuffs, and other items she wasn’t sure their purpose were for strewn about the man’s bedroom. Sherlock gave a quick look through it all, but nothing stuck out at her. Instead, she went to inspect his desk.

Ian immediately recognized the tools of their trade, many of the toys and devices being gifts from Ian’s private collection. A few were new, either purchased by or given to his former sub, and thoughts began to poison his mind as to where or whom they could have come from. It broke his heart a bit to see furniture moved, papers disturbed, and Jeremy’s collection out in plain, lewd view. He was such a military-precise person, buttoned-up in every aspect of his life except when he was under Ian’s hand - so it seemed.

And Sherlock went through it all with a fine toothed comb. It was her job to find out and she had no shame in it. Secrets were revealed all the time, the trick was to be clever enough so yours wasn’t. While going through a pile of the victim’s letters, something caught her eye. The envelope was made of thick, rich paper and an elegant scrawl read Jeremy’s name. It was an invitation to a rather high class event. “Who gave him this?” she mused, mostly to herself, “The party was tomorrow night.” The victim was killed before he could go. Interesting….

Ian took the letter and looked it over, shaking his head and shrugging.

“I wouldn’t have the faintest clue where he would have gotten that. It’s … high-end. I might have a few clients who would know the origin of a letter like this - hell, I very well may have a few clients who are attending this event.” He ran his thumb over the name written on the envelope, dark red with silver handwritten letters in a fine, effeminate calligraphy. “He would have looked very dashing in a tuxedo,” Ian remarked with a bit of a sad smile.

“Whoever killed him didn’t want him to go,” Sherlock said. She already had several theories on why that would be.

“Do you think whoever killed him, or ordered him to be killed, would be at this event, Sherlock?” Ian couldn’t help wondering, but then why invite the man to an event if he wasn’t meant to go?

Sherlock turned to him and smirked.

“Of course. That’s why we’re going.”  
———

John left the bank, making certain that he did a thorough casing of the place and talked to (flirted as well) with a few of the tellers. They did remember seeing Jeremy coming by often to the bank, but they had no idea why. He didn’t work there at all. Too bad he couldn’t have asked about the man’s financial records. But Sherlock must have seen something. When he left, he began walking back to the Tube, hoping to be at the flat before Sherlock arrived. That’s when he caught sight of a familiar black car. With a sigh, he got in and was driven away.  
The black car drove John to the familiar building of the Ministry of Defense, nested along the north bank of the Thames, nearly touched by the waning shadow of the London Eye in the afternoon sun. A nameless aide directed John to the office of Mycroft Holmes, who was wrapping up a call when the doctor walked in.

“—yes, and same to you, Mr. Prime Minister,” he said professionally as he dropped the phone into its cradle. “Ah, John. How lovely of you to drop in for a visit,” the elder Holmes said with a bit of sarcasm. “I trust things with my darling sister are going well, considering I haven’t seen her name in too many newspaper clippings, and she hasn’t called or texted.”

John took a seat across from Mycroft, no amusement in his eyes. “You know she doesn’t talk to you if she can’t avoid it.” He crossed his arms, “Something has come up. It can’t be a case or else you would have gone to meet us at the flat. That means it’s about Sherlock.”

 

———

Ian thought about Sherlock’s words for a few moments, then nodded.

“If it will find Jeremy’s killer, I’m willing to do whatever’s necessary, he said with conviction. Admittedly the thought of seeing Sherlock dressed to the nines and dancing at a grand ball would easily go down as one of the highlights of his life, especially if she’d let him tie her into a harness to wear under her kit before she dressed for it. Despite where he stood, the thought gave him pause and made him stir a bit, though he was able to put himself back in the present within a second.

She, naturally, noticed his slight change in demeanor.

“Whatever you’re thinking of, don’t. We’re doing this by my rules. This isn’t a pleasure ball. It’s our killer’s lair.” Ian handed the envelope back to Sherlock and offered a smirk. “

Yes, of course. Your rules entirely, but you can’t blame me for letting my mind run free for a moment. Don’t misunderstand, I cared a great deal for the man whose house we’re standing in, but the body wants what the body wants.” He shrugged and pocketed his hands. “I do know how to keep myself in check though, so not to worry.” Sherlock rolled her eyes and pocketed the invitation.

“Let’s go. This was all I needed.” Though she might have to get a dress on the way back.

“I wonder if John was able to discover anything at the bank,” Ian mused as they crossed the Vauxhall bridge on the way back to Sherlock’s flat.

“I wouldn’t doubt that.” Sherlock said, “He’s learned a lot about the game.”

By the time they’d battled through traffic again, it was nearly dark. When Ian’s sleek silver car pulled up to the curb in front of 221 Baker Street, a black Mercedes was just driving off.

“Another client?” Ian asked with a jut of his chin in the direction of the other car.

Sherlock didn’t answer him. She recognized that car. Mycroft. In a flash, she was out the door and heading up into the flat. “John?” she called up, nearly running up the stairs. The panic within her was rising again.

Immediately concerned, Ian parked and got out of the car, stepping through the open front door and walking up the steps to follow Sherlock, in the event something bad had happened.

John was sitting in his chair, waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherlock, we need to talk.”

“What did you find out at the bank. I think we might be able to—”

“I know what Ian Adler does for a living,” John said, stopping her from changing the subject. He looked down. “You should have told me. I know your personal life is your own, but what he does… Wouldn’t you think it has something to do with the killer? Ian could be a target himself and you just ran off with him without protection. You could have been killed as well!”

Ian stopped in his tracks at the door. Christ. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid, a domestic dust-up. He genuinely needed Sherlock’s help and now the stern little man with the hero complex was going to prevent that from happening.

“John I assure you, Sherlock was completely safe with me. My profession is irrelevent to this case. In my place of work, I am the Master, people respect me. Whatever Jeremy got himself into was his doing and has sod-all to do with me,” he said defensively.

“You can’t know that,” John shot back, standing up.

“Yes, we do.” Sherlock held up the invitation. “In fact, Ian will be very useful in pointing out which of his clients might have had an affair going on with Jeremy that lead to his death.”

He watched as John took the envelope, looked at it, looked inside, then back and forth at his partner and him a few times before just shaking his head and saying a stern ‘No’. Ian scrubbed a hand over his face and shook his head.

“I’m going to find out who killed my assistant, my companion, my friend, with or without you lot. Sherlock, whenever your partner is ready to cooperate instead of trying to engage in a childish pissing contest, you know where and how to reach me.” With that, he turned on his heel and left the flat, visibly frustrated and upset. The one person he loved to take his frustrations out on was dead so he couldn’t even go to his office and engage in the joy of a proper beating. Still, he went to the club, needing to keep control over his domain in light of his sub’s early demise.

“It’s like the drugs, Sherlock,” John tried to explain. “You’re going to…to hurt yourself!” She would end up leaving herself vulnerable. Tied up and…beaten? No. There had to be other ways. Not this. Not with this Ian fellow! He looked her in the eyes, trying to talk sense into her.

“You said it perfectly yourself, John,” Sherlock said, her voice just as cold as it had been with Ian earlier that day, “What I do with my personal life is my own. Now, I have a party to get ready for.” And then she was gone. John tried to follow her out the door, but lost her when she turned down the alleyway. She knew the area better than him. She knew how to get lost. Sighing, John went home and slammed the door behind him. 

 

Three hours later and Sherlock was at Ian’s club, looking for him.

In light of Jeremy’s death and Ian’s particularly poor mood, he’d decided to cancel everyone’s appointments and close the club for the next few days. When Sherlock found him, Ian sat on the stage with half the lights on, staring down at his clasped hands. He’d need to hire a new assistant, or perhaps upgrade one of his subs to the position, but that was a far off thought that he didn’t want to address at the moment. He was deep in thought, contemplating who among the hundreds of faces he saw regularly in his establishment would want to bring harm to, let alone kill Jeremy but his brain simply wouldn’t cooperate and give up the name and face.

Sherlock walked in quietly and placed a bag down at a table. It was the dress she would be wearing to the event. She decided she wasn’t going to go back to the flat and bought a new dress rather than take one from her wardrobe.

“You need to stop thinking,” she said, coming up towards the stage. “It won’t do you any good.”

“For years I’ve only ever dealt with conflict one way,” he responded after a long moment. His suitjacket was off, tie loosened, gloves tucked into his back pocket. The battle armor was off. It was just Ian sitting there. “Now I find myself conflicted and I don’t know how to deal with it. Jeremy was mine. Or, I thought he was. He had access to everything. My schedules, my accounts, my office, my client roster. If after all that time I am to find out that he got himself killed because he was working for someone else, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“That’s one theory,” Sherlock said. It could be true after all. “But that’s not the only one. He could have been having an affair with one of the clients and then tried to blackmail them. Or, a close family member of said client could have had the man killed because they didn’t approve of his lifestyle.” Mycroft could have simply gone that way, but no, he decided to manipulate John to do his bidding for him. And John let him.

“It just doesn’t seem possible, but then… outside of our arrangement and the professional arena, I realize I knew precious little about the man.” He got up, pacing the stage a few steps in either direction, before picking up a crop from a nearby tray of performance tools. He slashed it through the air a few times, listening comfortingly to the whipping sound before clasping both ends in his hands and giving it a deep bend. “People are all made differently. Most people get their jollies with conventional sex. Some like to make a statement. Some get theirs behind closed doors at the hands of someone challenging them to expand their pain-pleasure threshold. We live in London for Christsakes! Why, when we have men and women walking around in leather and spikes and eight-inch mohawks, would someone want to murder a charming, handsome young man who preferred a three-piece to a ball gag, whose only sin was that he loved getting a good sound whipping to make himself feel alive. It doesn’t make sense to me, Sherlock.” He bent the crop again before slicing it through the air once more. Sherlock climbed up onto the stage, walking towards him.

“If the world made sense, I would be out of the job. So I can’t really complain….” She grabbed his arm, stopping him. “What do you need from me?” she asked, looking him in the eyes. From her expression, it was clear of what she meant. “I can’t have you like this tomorrow or else the mystery of Jeremy’s death might never be solved. You helped me when I needed it, it’s only right that I return the favor.” He tossed the crop back onto its tray and rested his hand over hers.

“I’m a man who beats people for a living but believe it or not I have a very strong moral compass. I don’t want to contribute to any strife between you and John,” he said quietly, giving her the chance to take back her offer and perhaps clarify what the man meant to her.

“My personal life is my own.” Sherlock repeated herself for the second time this night. “John is simply going to have to grow up and stop mothering me around. Now where do you want me?”

Satisfied that she’d cast her lot in with him at least for the time being, he straighened up, the mask of the Master falling into place.

“My office. Go and change,” he said firmly, pointing at the door.

Obeying, she walked through the doors of his office and into the small changing room. Minutes later, she was fully naked and ready to submit to him. Sherlock understood it was about Ian’s need tonight and wasn’t going to fight. She needed him back to his normal self if tomorrow was going to be successful.

He was seated at his desk, lengths of rope laid out by the time she emerged. Her pale skin was a welcome vision, and when it was all over he would thank her profusely for understanding his need and letting him take his fill of her.

“Stand just there, let me look at you a moment.” When she stood in the indicated spot, he got up, walked a circle around her, letting his fingertips brush down her arms, over he belly, and as he stood behind her he drew her long curls back away from her shoulders and touched her collarbones as he dipped his head and sniffed her neck. “Just as beautiful as memory serves,” he said with a smile.

Sherlock closed her eyes, relaxing into his touch. She could trust him not to go too far. When Sherlock relaxed, Ian’s instincts kicked in and overrode his melancholy. He lost himself in the time it took to tie her up in the body harness he so favored, being decidedly less gentle when he pulled and cinched the ropes together and tied them off. He was happy to see that he needed the entire length of rope to tie her this time, and that she had gained back the weight she’d lost when he saw her last. When he was done, he gave the ropes a tug to check their tightness. “Alright so far?”

“Yes,” she breathed, “Master.” Sherlock actually didn’t mind the bit of roughness. It only excited her more.

The formal address was charming and it warmed him that she was so willing to drop to that level of submission. He touched her cheek and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sir will do just fine, my pet. Thank you for that acknowlegement though.” He walked a circle around her, rolling his neck and shoulders, mentally mapping out his next move. Good. So he enjoyed that, she thought.

“Have you missed this, Sherlock? Missed our play time, the feel of the ropes keeping you from moving or reacting, the feel of the crop or my bare hand kissing you flawless skin…”

“I have missed it,” she responded after a deep breath. She couldn’t lie. It had given her what she needed, when she most desperately needed it. Once she had started receiving cases again, and her mind re-focused on her work, she became very aware of how easy it would have been for her to have gone to a dealer instead of Ian. Whatever Mycroft had told John just couldn’t explain what that had meant to Sherlock.

“I am glad I am not the only one, then,” he purred in her ear as he stepped behind her again. He took her hands and aligned them, wrists together and rested against her bottom, and wrapped a length of rope around them and then between them, checking the colour of her fingertips and the tightness of the tied column.

“Every time I sit at my desk, Sherlock,” he murmured as he gave the ropes one last tug, “Every time I do the most mundane tasks there, my thoughts get tained with the memory of touching you, tasting you, whipping you, fucking you right there on that very fine oak surface.”

“Should I apologize,” Sherlock licked her lips, “Sir?” She experimented by tugging on the ropes at her wrists.

“Perhaps you should, pet,” he said as he held her by the length of rope along her spine and marched her to the desk, bending her over its surface face first. “I think I want to hear you apologize while I give you a few new marks on the gorgeous blank canvas of your arse, Sherlock,” he said as he reached for a familiar old friend, the crop with the wide leather tab at the end. He stood back from her, admiring the view for a moment before lightly brushing the leather tip along the curve of both sides of her bottom and then directly up the center.

She shuddered at the feeling, waiting for the first strike. With lightning quickness, he cracked the crop against her skin. The sound of the crop zipping through the air and the slap of leather on skin gave him a heady rush and he shivered with the first blow. The slap sent a jolt through Sherlock’s body, causing her to jump a bit. She cried out, feeling the pain turn into a delicious heat. Wasn’t she supposed to be doing something? Right.

“I’m sorry, Sir!” she gasped.

“Sorry for what, Sherlock?” Another blow of similar strength streaked across the opposite arse cheek, satisfaction blossoming in his chest as she shuddered, letting pleasure override her pain.

“For distracting you.” Her voice became higher in pitch. Breathier…needier.

“Are you sorry you stayed away so long?” Another crack across her left arse cheek, further down, the crop making such beautiful sound against the curve of flesh.

“Yes!” Sherlock tensed against the ropes, feeling them pull tight around her entire body.

“Yes what?” His voice remained calm despite the high of giving Sherlock exactly what they both needed. A fourth strike, this time creasing her right thigh.

“Yes, Sir!” Sherlock took another deep breath, trying to calm herself down. She couldn’t get ahead of herself. This was for Ian tonight.

“What else. What else are you sorry for, pet. Tell me, give me a reason to whip you again,” he said smoothly as he skimmed the tip of the crop along the red marks erupting across her white skin. She let out a soft moan, trying to find something she was sorry for. She needed to give this to him.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry for putting the mold cultures in the bread drawer.”

“Naughty. I bet John wasn’t very happy with you for that,” he said as he gave her a fifth lashing across her left thigh. “What else. Oh I bet you have a laundry list of reasons for me to paint your arse with red marks tonight, don’t you Sherlock.”

She nodded her head, thinking up anything and everything she could. With every reason she gave, she earned a fresh lashing until there were over a dozen marks criscrossing her bottom and thighs. “Have you had enough, or are you still in the mood for confessing? You would make up reasons for me to hit you if you had to, wouldn’t you, you wicked girl.”

“I’m sorry John found out.”

“Are you?” That was as honest a confession as she could possibly give him and he wanted to kiss her for telling him, but instead she earned a double-slap from the crop. “One strike for me, one strike for your partner. I think that’s only fair.”

Sherlock groaned. That was all she could think about. She wished she could turn around and see him. How did he react to her saying that—besides the whipping. Ian stood back and admired his work for a long moment, the symmetry of his ties, his marks, the perfect shape of her bottom and legs and the way her shoulderblades and spine stood out in sharp relief along her back from the way her arms stretched.

“You always know how to throw me off my guard, Sherlock. Imagine my shock when I show up on your doorstep and find your gentleman partner there,” he said in a moment of confession for himself. “Yet here you are, bent over for me, wearing my marks on your skin. Are you letting me beat the guilt out of you because he found out about me, or beat the pleasure into you because he can’t give you what I can.”

She was silent for a moment, not sure what to say.

“We aren’t…..we don’t sleep together.”

So the affection was one-sided, then. The prickly litte man had it bad for Sherlock but it was entirely unrequited. That gave Ian a bit of a charge to his batteries. In a moment of laps, he did the unthinkable then. He laughed.

“You aren’t? Oh, God that is precious. The way he looks at you. It’s exactly the way Jer—” he stopped himself mid-sentence. Too personal. No. Rein it back. “I am sorry. Forgive me, I lost myself for a moment,” he said as he paced the room a moment.

Sherlock swallowed a lump forming in her throat. “I know.” John was…

He stopped pacing when she spoke again, heard how her voice had thickened. “Up,” he commanded as he grabbed the back of her harness and pulled her off the desk, turning her to face him. His own face was neutral, but his eyes were soft.

“Sherlock,” he said softly, tracing the lines of the rope between her breasts. “Tell me truthfully if this is going to cause a problem.” He wanted her, wanted to keep her, make her his own, tie her and mark her and fuck her at his leisure, but it was baldly obvious that they were treading thin ice. He wasn’t sure in that moment what he’d have a harder time with - knowing she came to him when there was someone at home that wanted her, or having her choose to never come to him again because she had what she wanted at home.

“I can’t,” she said honestly, “because I don’t know…” Ian gave her something she needed, she wanted. John did the same, only in ways Ian couldn’t. “Please Ian, not now.” It could wait. Or that’s what Sherlock hoped for.

He watched her as she thought it through and spoke, then let out a nasal sigh and pressed another kiss to her forehead.

“I understand,” he said with a tone of genuine honesty. “Go sit in my chair, the leather will cool your hide and I want to make some more ties.

She let him lead her back towards the chair and sat down, sighing as her sensitive flesh was cooled. Sherlock let her head fall back and closed her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Thank you… what?” He said as he picked up two individually wrapped bundles of rope and moved to kneel at her feet.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he murmured as he picked up one foot from the ground, bending her knee completely until her heel touched the back of her thigh. He wrapped rope around her thigh and ankle a few times, then between thigh and ankle a few times to complete the tie. When the tie was finished, he bent his head and bit and sucked at the skin from her inner knee up to the rope around her thigh.

Sherlock moaned, opening her eyes to look down at him. She watched every move he made over her body.

Her moans went straight to his groin. Every noise she made was the perfect resonance to put him at ease. He gave the other leg similar treatment, and when she was bound, bitten, sucked, and patches of purple were blossoming along her thighs, he bent and rested his forehead on her lower belly, his nose pressed to her mound, warm breath flowing over her labia while he caught his breath.

The muscles in her thighs trembled slightly as she felt his breath on her. She bit her lip in anticipation, breathing hard. He could feel her shaking, loved the way she panted and whimpered with need.

“Tell me, Sherlock,” he said softly from between her thighs. “Tell me what you want, what you need me to do to you.”

“I need you to use me.” Sherlock said, “I need you to take what you want from me.” She needed him to be whole again.

He stood up, lifted her from the chair and set her on the desk on her back, with her arms under her and her feet on the desk surface, her thighs spread delightfully, revealing the marks on her skin and the pink folds of her sex gleaming with moisture.

“That’s fucking handy, because I need to use you.” He sat in his chair, and reached to spread the ropes between her labia, and without warning he pressed his mouth against her clit, lapping and sucking firmly.

Sherlock cried out as the wet heat of his tongue assaulted her sex. She pulled against the ropes, instinctively trying to move into the pleasure. He went after her clit relentlessly for a few minutes, delighting in how she squirmed and cried out in pleasure. Just as she was finding a rhythm to the pleasure, he stopped abruptly and sat back, wiping his lips and watching her squirm and pulse.

“Naughty. So very naughty, Sherlock, and in so much need of punishment,” he murmured. The sound that escaped her lips could only be described as a keen. She looked up at him with a pleading look in her eyes.

He stood up and bent over her, touching her cheek. “So wanton. You want to be used. This is as much for you as for me, isn’t it? You like the pain, you like being tied, you like having your body used like a fucking toy don’t you.”

Sherlock arched her neck up, desperate for him to touch her. “Yes. Oh god, yes!”

He bent and nipped at her collarbone and hummed against her soft skin, while his fingers slid down and parted her folds, slipping into her between the ropes in one swift motion. “God you feel fucking amazing,” he murmured against her neck as her wet silken heat adjusted around his long digits.

She let out another, louder moan. So badly did she want to move into them, to feel more.

He drew them out slowly, pressing firmly against the delicate bunch of nerves making up her g-spot, enough to make her breath catch and a deep groan fall from her lips. When he pushed in again, he added a third digit, pushing slow and firm so she could feel the stretch without causing her unnecessary discomfort.

“Oh god!” she moaned, “Ian!” The stretch was just perfect as he entered her. He pushed up again, the pads of his fingers catching her g-spot again, as he pulled out until just the tips of his fingers remained inside her.

“You’ll call me sir, or I’ll let you linger just like this until you lose your mind with frustrated need.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said quickly, trying not to squirm with need, “Please, Sir…”

“Good girl. So good.” He pushed in, just up to the second knuckle, and started a swift up-and-down motion, pushing against the front and back walls of her snug, perfect little cunt, each upward stroke giving her g-spot a nudge. “Don’t you dare come until I tell you to, Sherlock. Don’t you dare,” he murmured, knowing he’d get her damn close with little effort with this move.

Sherlock’s body was trembling as she tried to focus on her breathing. The pleasure was driving her mad! And she knew, she knew that Ian was doing this on purpose, just to watch her like this. She moaned again, so close…

The sounds of her moaning mixed with the wet sounds coming from between her thighs had Ian hard as steel but he was nowhere near done with her yet. When she was just barely at the edge, teetering, threatening to fall over, he pulled his fingers away completely and chuckled when she protested.

“Fuck!” Sherlock pulled against her bindings, trying to bring back the pleasurable sensations, but it wasn’t enough to take her over the edge. She let her head fall back again, panting and feeling the ropes pull against her breasts with each breath. He bent his head to her left nipple and sucked it roughly before biting down, recalling how sensitive they were when clamped.

“That’s it. Get angry. Show me how you feel, Sherlock. Let it out,” he growled against her skin as she writhed, trying to find contact again.

Yes! That was the spot! Sherlock arched her back as far as she could in her harness.

“More,” she begged, “More, Sir! Please, don’t leave me like this!”

“You sound beautiful,” he said against her breast as he pressed kisses against her skin, then moved to her right nipple, sucking and biting again. His fingertips, still damp and slick from her warm depths, trailed along the inside of her thigh teasingly. “I’ll give you more when I’m ready,” he growled, “Though I fucking love listening to you beg.”

Sherlock groaned and began begging even more. She wasn’t even conscious of what she was saying. All she wanted was his touch and she needed it now!

He chuckled against her breastbone and stroked a single fingertip along her clit, waiting for her to launch off the desktop. She cried out, squeezing her eyes shut. This was absolute torture!

“Had enough,” he purred into her ear as he brushed his nose up her chest, to her neck, and his lips brushed her ear.

“Please… please, Sir….”

He bit her earlobe as his fingers slid into her again, deep at first, pushing hard and fluttering all three fingers against her walls. She let out another moan as she felt him in her once more. Suddenly she remembered that she didn’t want her to come until he told her to. Maybe this was a bad idea after all.

“Realizing the error of your plan, aren’t you?” He held himself up on one hand, leaving his fingers buried deep, fluttering rapidly, watching her face as she tried so hard to hold on to her inevitable climax. “You’re so close. I can feel you getting so tight, Sherlock. You’d better not come. Don’t you dare, or I’ll take the crop to you again.”

“Don’t you dare say that then!” She was so close now, how in the world could she stop something as wonderful as this?

“Oh, tsk tsk, you don’t get to tell me what to do, my darling, you get to take what I give you and fucking like it,” He grinned wickedly down at her and let his thumb graze her clit.

Sherlock had to shut her eyes again. His expression, the hunger in his eyes. She tried to think of complex math equations in her head to stop the oncoming waves of pleasure from overwhelming her.

“Open your eyes. Look at me. Don’t you dare hide from me,” he growled as he stroked her clit again, pushing hard into her for a moment.

There was no way she could disobey when his voice was like that. Sherlock opened her eyes. As soon as she saw him, it was too late to stop. The pleasure washed over her entire body as she cried out his name.

Feeling her come around his fingers was both beautiful and fucking infuriating and he couldn’t help letting out a moan as she clamped down tightly. “Oh… Sherlock. You are so… bad. So very bad,” he panted against her neck.

She was too far gone to even say sorry. Her body shuddered pleasurably a few more times, feeling the last effects of her climax.

“Feel better?” He left his fingers buried in her as she rode out the after shocks. He chuckled against her skin and nipped her jaw before propping himself up again. “You are so fucking beautiful when you come apart under my fingers, Sherlock, do you know that? I am going to punish you so very hard for going against my orders, but I love watching you come.”

“I guess,” Sherlock panted, “this is when I tell you my dress is backless. You might want to leave that area alone.” Her body finally relaxed beneath him. She was almost /too/ sensitive now.

“You really don’t want me to keep my hands off of you tonight do you,” he said with a grin. “That’s quite alright. I’m happy taking out my frustrations on your pretty arse.” To punctuate his statement, he sat up and slid his fingers out of her, taking a moment to lick and suck them clean before turning her over and letting his bare palm come crashing down on her backside. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room, mixed with Sherlock’s cry of pain and pleasure. She didn’t need to mirror to know her cheeks were turning bright red. He gave another slap to the other side, humming in delight at her cries.

“That’s right. Let me hear you.” He leaned down and gave a sharp bite to her left arse cheek, lathing his tongue over the bite mark afterward. The next sound that escaped her was louder, which soon turned into a moan when she felt his tongue on her skin.

“Good girl. Let it out,” he murmured as he gave the other arse cheek a similar bite and lick. “You love that don’t you. Face down on my desk. Arse in the air. Getting a spanking for being such a naughty tart. Say it.”

“Yes,” she moaned, “I love it… I love it so much…”

He hummed and dragged his tongue up the cleft of her bottom at her words, then backed away to admire the red lines, the bright red hand prints, and the shimmer of her glistening cunt, still wet and slick from her climax. “Delicious. So delicious.”

Sherlock tried to spread herself as far as she could. An invitation.

“More, then?” He smoothed his hands over the globes of her bottom and took another long swipe of his tongue, pressing the tip against her anus and waiting for her to squirm.

And that certainly didn’t take long. “Oh god, yes! Please!”

He dug in with gusto, tongue flicking along her sensitive flesh, squeezing her arse and pushing her cheeks apart, spreading her open lewdly and indulging in her most intimate spaces while she keened and whimpered, powerless to move against or away from him.

Sherlock was absolutely wrecked, crying out incoherently at the sensations. She was no longer sure if this was for her pleasure or his and no longer cared. As long as he didn’t stop, she was fine. He dipped his head lower lapping at her folds again before trailing his tongue along her cleft again. One hand left her backside so he could palm himself through his trousers, then clumsily but single-handedly unbuttoned them and started shifting them down along with his pants. “Do you have any idea how hard you have me, Sherlock?” He murmured against her tailbone.

In a moment, she knew she’d get to feel it. Sherlock tried to spread her legs even wider, pulling hard on her ties until it almost hurt. “Take me. Take me, please!”

He nipped her tailbone while dragging his desk drawer open for a condom, quickly slipping it on. “Eager. Wanton. Naughty. You are so bad, and so good, all at once, and right now, you are all mine.” He stood up from his chair, his height putting him right at the perfect level to slide into her. He held her hips and pushed up into her slick entrance slowly, enjoying the tight grip of her muscles.

Sherlock groaned as he finally entered her. “Fuck me, use me, take what you need. Take everything from me…”

“Yes. Don’t stop talking, Sherlock, beg me, beg me to take you, let me hear you,” he said as he finally sank all the way in. He pulled back, then drove in hard, listening to her groan.

“Harder! Please! Fuck me!” Every word was followed by an obscene moan. Sherlock could feel every inch of his cock moving in her, slamming into her still sensitive sex.

He grinned and slid back again, driving into her harder. “Like that? That what you want?” He drew back and plunged his prick into her again, barely giving her time to moan before pulling out and pushing in again, setting up a rapid, brutal pace, fucking her harder than he could remember taking her before.

Her begging and moans soon melded together until it was just a mix of inarticulate sound. It wasn’t long until she could feel herself reaching the edge again. There was no way she could stop it and she didn’t want it to stop.

He felt her tighten and moved one of his hands, pressing the tip of his thumb against her anus, tickling and stroking the sensitive entrance, pushing her further. “Come, Sherlock. Come on my cock. I can feel it, you’re ready. Let go. Come for me, pet.”

And that was all she needed. Every muscle in her body tightened right before she released. She had no more voice to cry out and only gasped as pleasure took over her body. Totally spent, she collapsed against the table with only Ian’s hands to hold her up.

He sighed happily as she clenched around him, continuing to pound her roughly until he reached his own peak, a few minutes later. With a shudder and a groan, he spilled into her, pitching forward and resting his head between her shoulders as he panted and trembled. “Christ. Sherlock. You fucking star. You fucking amazing creature.”

She was completely limp underneath him. It took her a moment to realize why he had stoppped. A soundless laugh escaped her lips. That had been intense. “You’re welcome,” she said quietly.

He nuzzled the spot between her shoulderblades where his face rested, and pressed a kiss there before he carefully slid out and dealt with the spent condom. On shaky legs, a satisfied ache low in his belly, he walked across the office to retrieve a knife to cut her free. A few well-placed and careful cuts and her legs and arms were free, allowing her to turn over and relax. One she was cut free, he sank into his chair, running a hand over his face and letting out a deep sigh. He took a moment to look at her with a satisfied grin on his face.

Slowly, Sherlock rolled over. She wasn’t quite sure if she could support her own weight and so just laid down over his desk. Looking up at Ian, she noticed that this was a very different man than the one she had first seen coming into the club that night.

“We’re going to have to think of other places for you to have me,” Sherlock said, “I don’t think the desk will be able to take much more of the abuse we put upon it.”

He chuckled, rolling forward in his chair and sliding into the space between her thighs. He ran his hands up her legs and rested them on her waist, looking up at her with a far more easy gaze than before they had gotten started. “It’s solid oak, darling, I think it can handle it. Although I’m more than happy to continue to test its mettle.”

She smirked and looked down at him. “But I thought I was distracting you.”

“Oh, you are distracting me. And the more distraction, the merrier I say,” he responded with a chuckle.

“Good to see you’re back to your usual self,” Sherlock finally attempted to sit up. “By the way, I’m not going back to my place. Can I borrow your couch?”

“No, you may not,” he said as his hands slid up her back, helping to prop her up. “You may, however, take my guest bedroom. If you can get over the fact that it’s entirely vanilla, no cabinets full of rope, and racks full of crops and sex toys.”

“I think I can manage,” Sherlock smiled.

“Of course if you’re up for it you’re welcome to my bed as well.” He grinned up at her then dipped his head, nipping her thigh.

“As long as I can get a good night’s rest, I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me.”

He smirked at her wording.

“Be careful what you wish for, Ms. Holmes,” he cautioned with a playful tone.

After a few more minutes of rest, Sherlock was beginning to feel the cold. She slowly made her way back to the changing room and put her clothes back on. In the mirror, she inspected herself. The red marks would fade, but not the love bites he had spread across her thighs and arse. Good thing her gown was full length.

Ian meanwhile put himself back together in the quiet of his office. Quiet. Normally beyond his door it would be throbbing with sexual energy but it was just quiet and empty. It felt strange and the reality hit him that his door wasn’t going to swing open at any minute, not the least of which by his assistant. A sagging sense of melancholy broke through the haze of sexual satiation but he stowed it before Sherlock returned. He turned his gaze toward the changing room door. Sherlock. She had been exactly what he needed both for his case and for his sanity. He needed to be extremely cautious because he could see himself becoming very addicted to the lovely detective.

Sherlock stepped back out, fully dressed and on equal grounds with him. She stepped back out to the main room to find her bag. It had everything she needed for the party tomorrow. There was no need to return to Baker Street. There was no need to have to face John until this was all over.

“Are you ready to leave, Ian?” she asked cooly.

He was leaned casually against his desk, his hands in his pockets, when she came out. He watched her cross the room, all business, and gather her things. He’d just fucked her into a soundly boneless heap for the third time in six months, after having lost his assistant and inspired a rather heated row between the detective and her very male flatmate, who was most decidedly in love with Sherlock and very sore with both of them right now.

“You’re sure you want to do this,” he asked her plainly, knowing she knew what he was asking.

“Yes,” she said after a moment’s pause. Right now, she couldn’t—no—wouldn’t, discuss any of this. John and Ian both mattered to her, strangely enough, and she wasn’t going to cut one off just because she had a row with the other. He reached out and took her by the wrist, pulling her toward him.

“You can’t make a habit of this, Sherlock. You can’t come running to me every time you have a tiff with your live-in. Eventually you have to face it and choose. And I’m not going to let you choose me, because I can and will happily whip you and tie you and fuck you until you walk funny but you can’t have this,” he said as he pushed her hand against his chest. “I don’t know if it’s what you want or if you could care less, but I’m telling you now, you don’t get love from me. You get a fuck buddy at the very most.” He had to say it to remind himself as well as her, but he didn’t have someone waiting at home for him so the reminder was more for her, he rationalized.

“I understand.” But why did she have to choose? It didn’t make sense to her! She got what she needed from both men and yet their fucking pride wanted her to make a choice. Sherlock removed her hand from his chest. “Now can we leave, already?”

Wordlessly, he gestured for her to walk out ahead of him, having one last look around before killing the lights and locking the doors. He led her through the carpark to his car, unlocking the doors and popping open the boot for her to put her belongings in, then slid into the driver’s seat and buckled in.

“Right, off we are.”

John sat in his chair, his head in his hands. Where was she? He hoped she was somewhere safe and not with /him/. Dammit! Why had he said that to her?

Sherlock was silent the entire trip to Ian’s home, watching London pass them by through the window. Once arrived at his townhome Ian let Sherlock in, gave her a brief tour and showed her to her room.

“You should at least let him know you’re safe,” he said as he stood in the doorway of his guest bedroom, leaning casually against one side. Sherlock rolled her eyes, sending John a brief message that she was out. She wouldn’t return until after the case was solved.

“Happy?” she asked, taking her coat off and tossing it over a chair.

“Happier,” he responded. “I’ll let you get settled, I’m just around the corner making tea if you need anything,” he said as he retreated from the room and went to the kitchen.

She sighed and kicked off her shoes. Honestly, all she wanted to do was sleep now. The party tomorrow night would be important. She needed to stay focused and push aside her own domestic problems. Stripping off her clothes once more, she climbed into bed. She was asleep in minutes.


	3. Chapter 3

Ian had peeked in on Sherlock after having not seen her for the better part of two hours, and was pleased to see the seemingly tireless detective sound asleep. He let her rest, despite his cheeky offer to let her take to his bed, and when she woke they were cordial but relatively distant. She refused dinner, saying something about digestion clouding the thought process, kept mostly to her laptop throughout the evening and into the wee hours of the morning, and only took coffee (black two sugars) in the morning. He tried to envision what daily life with this peculiar, fascinating woman was like, but she was, as ever, a mystery.

Finally evening came and they went about their individual preparatory processes, getting ready for the party. He took his time showering and dressed himself in a smart, modern, slim-cut tuxedo jacket with satin lapels, a dark crimson waistcoat with matching tie and handkerchief, and antique silver cufflinks in the shape of figure-eight knots. He checked his appearance in the mirror one last time, giving himself a confident smirk, then exited his bedroom to wait for Sherlock. What he found when he reached the sitting room nearly caused him to trip over his own jaw. She was a vision.

The dark plum colored evening gown was draped over Sherlock’s frame gracefully. It was in the classic greek style and made of the lightest material. Her eyes were lined with black liner, making the silver in her eyes flash out. A simple silver chain was wrapped around her neck with a matching bracelet on her left wrist. A pair of short black heels completed the look. It wasn’t like she needed the height after all.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Adler? Do you not like it?” Sherlock smirked at Ian. He grinned at her and crossed the room to take inventory of his date, letting his fingertips walk up her arm, across her shoulder, and down her bare back.

“You weren’t kidding about the back of this dress,” he murmured quietly. “On the one hand I’m glad I didn’t mark you. On the other hand I wish like hell I would have,” he said as he stepped behind her, his fingertips slid down her spine. “You look extraordinary, Sherlock, and ruse or not I am going to be the envy of every man in the room tonight.” Sherlock closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Now was not the time.

“It’ll get us the attention we need. But your eyes are going to be looking out at the crowd and not my arse.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, I’m perfectly capable of splitting my attention, pet. Don’t worry. He stood behind her, drawing the curtain of her dark curls to one side to expose her neck, where he pressed a single kiss at the junction of neck and shoulder. “You will be the distraction of everyone in attendance, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find the information we need.” With that, he gave her an appreciative swat on the arse and stepped around her again, breaking the moment as he strolled off to gather wallet and keys and prepare to leave.

“Shall we, then?” The damn tease. Sherlock had her clutch in hand and picked up a shawl to cover her shoulders.

“Of course.” They drove out to a beautiful estate near the edge of London. People were standing outside, socializing with the new arrivals while others went straight in. In Sherlock’s clutch was their invitation with Jeremy’s name on it. Her eyes scanned the crowd, looking for anything amiss.

Ian was the consummate gentleman through the entire process, holding doors, offering his arm, and acting within the expectations of the role he played. He never missed an opportunity to skim his fingertips over the small of Sherlock’s back as the strolled through the party, scanning each corner of each room, each face. He accepted that she was in her element and he was merely an observer though, and found it incredible how she was able to read each person she came across - state of their marriage, occupation, how many pets and children they had, and so much more.

It was…nice showing her skills off to Ian. He was obviously astounded by it, but kept a calm demeanor about it. And he certainly knew how to act around these idiots. Sherlock had a bit of fun with him, pointing out what she could tell about them. And yet none of them were who they were looking for.

“Tell me if you see any of your clients that are connected to Ares National Bank.” she said to him, taking a sip of the champagne. They made a few rounds around the room, keeping to themselves and giving the impression of a couple completely besotted with each other so as not to draw too much attention to the fact that neither of them was actually supposed to be there. It was fun and quite alluring to watch Sherlock at her very best, but it was getting them nowhere. The string quartet struck up good tempo for a dance and Ian was struck with an idea. He slid his fingers across Sherlock’s lower back and offered his free hand.

“Dance with me?” He asked with a sly smile. He leaned close to her ear and whispered. “It will give us a good glance at the whole room while making men’s and women’s tongues wag at the same time.” Sherlock smirked.

“I’ve been waiting all night for you to ask me.” It was quite a clever idea of his, actually. They made their way to the center of the room where the dance floor was set up. What people never knew was that Sherlock could be quite graceful when she wanted to be. Her mother wanted to have her trained in ballet. Of course, that never did work out.

Ian was quite pleased to find his date was also quite a lovely dance partner as well. He took her by the hand and around her lovely slender waist and led her around the dance floor, falling in step with her as if they’d danced together for years. It almost saddened him to have to pay more attention to the room than to the woman. Her eyes looked over the dancers and their audience. Ian was right, they certainly were getting a lot of attention. Perhaps too much. Then she spotted a man, going gray at the temples, that had the tell tale signs of a banker.

“The man with the dark blue bow tie,” she whispered in Ian’s ear, “Is he one of your clients?” Behind him was another man, dark hair and darker eyes. Sherlock frowned, noticing that those eyes were fixed solely on her. A waiter blocked her view and the man was gone. Ian caught sight of the man on their next turn and the face did look vaguely familiar. One more turn around the floor confirmed it.

“Yes. Yes, he’s a client. Not one of mine. He belongs to one of my female associates, Elena.” He noticed her frowning but couldn’t tell what had caught her eye. “What is it,” he murmured, scanning the room again.

“Nothing,” she said. Just focus on the case at hand. “What does Elena do for your clients?

“She provides whatever service her clients require, as long as it involves leather and pain,” he murmured as he watched the room. “She’s my leather queen, prefers masks and cuffs and harnesses and has an odd fondness for wooden clothes-pins. She doesn’t take ameteurs, only allows more experienced clientele.”

“Could Jeremy have provided similar services?” Sherlock remembered seeing the leather whips in his collection. They were well used and taken care of, though he was Ian’s sub. He thought about it, then nodded.

“Elena had taken a shine to Jeremy, now that I think about it. He loved being a sub for me, but he had aspirations of having subs of his own. I loved tying him up and he welcomed it… but I suppose he had grown up from the days of hemp rope and wanted to learn more about working with leather. He did seem to love taking a more harsh beating in those last few weeks.”

“He learned what he used from Elena and started having meetings with our banker client.” It was beginning to make sense, “The man used funds straight from the bank so there was no trail to follow back to him. He didn’t want others to know about his hobby.”

“Naughty,” he said half-heartedly. “So the clean cut banker has a leather fetish,” he commented in idle observation. “Always the quiet clean-cut ones you have to worry about.” He was speaking of the banker, but also of Jeremy.

“You feel betrayed by him,” Sherlock noted. While they danced, she directed them closer to the banker. She would need proof before calling in the police.

“I’m learning more about my companion in his posthumous state than I ever learned about him when he was alive.” He let her nudge them closer to the banker. “Yes, to answer your question, I feel betrayed. Seems we’ve found the sort of pain I don’t particularly care for.”

“He was drowned,” Sherlock said, “but he would have fought back. If the banker has defensive wounds, then we’ll know it’s him.” When the got close enough, it was time to cause a distraction. Sherlock let her foot fly out farther than needed for their next step, causing a waiter passing by to trip, his tray hitting the banker.

As the tray went flying, the banker threw up his hands to defend himself against the deluge of champagne glasses. It was as if the entire event was in slow motion as the waiter fell and the banker was soaked. He quickly whipped off his jacket, but the champagne had already soaked through, wetting the sleeves of his white shirt enough to show skin underneath, bruises along his wrists and forearms visible as the fabric stuck. Other bruises showed through on his chest and he’d no doubt have the telltale whip marks along his back and buttocks if viewed as well.

Sherlock could hear gasps from all across the room. The bruises were a few days old, but none of them were defensive at all. Those marks were done to him by an expert. They were meant to be there. That couldn’t be right… He had to be the killer! It was the only thing that made bloody sense!

“Those are all from Elena. The bruises on his arms are from a particularly tight leather binding session. The ones on his chest are from the five-inch stillettos she loves.” He explained without any amusement or pride. “Fuck. It’s not him. Who the sodding hell else could it be,” he hissed bitterly. So close, yet so far.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of movement down the connecting hallway, away from the main room.

“Go talk to him. He was probably with Jeremy the night before he was killed. I’ll be back shortly.” And Sherlock was off, following the dark figure. Something wasn’t right here.

Ian could feel the tension coil in her as she left his embrace. His instinct was to follow her. But he did as she asked, going to find the banker, feigning assistance but intending on questioning him.

Sherlock walked quickly down the hall, trying to follow where the dark figure had gone. All the evidence should have pointed towards the banker. But what could the man’s motive have been? Did Jeremy blackmail him or perhaps wanted to end their arrangement? Still, the invitation…Jeremy was supposed to go to this party and meet with the suspect. He died before he could do that, leaving the spot open for someone else to come…..

The phone in her clutch beeped. She pulled it out and stared at the screen. John. The bloody idiot was apologizing and saying he was outside, ready for if she needed his help with the case. That wonderful bastard.

Then Sherlock heard someone coming up behind her.

Ian tried to keep an eye on where Sherlock had run off to but he quickly lost sight of her. The banker, whose name he learnt was Stephen Gates, hesitated at first but after some pursuasion and brokering was able to be swayed. After a brief conversation, he knew that the banker had indeed had a session with Elena and Jeremy the night before Jeremy wound up on the banks of the Thames. It was Gates who had set up the account for Jeremy, Gates who had insisted on getting Jeremy’s attention and having Elena teach him about what the banker liked. Gates who warned Ian that the information he’d just learned was useless because the person who hired him to facilitate the entire operation was already in motion and likely already had ‘The pretty detective.’ Fuck. Fuck, fuck, and more fuck, he’d left her to go off on her own, and now he’d just learned there was someone after her. No wonder she’d become cagey right before running off, she knew. She knew something was off.

[Sherlock, come back, I have information. -IA]

No respose.

[You aren’t safe, come back, we need to talk. -IA]

No response.

He went in the direction she was last seen, but the winding hallways and identical doors led him nowhere.

The last thing Sherlock had remember was someone grabbing her and a sharp pain in her neck. A needle. Whatever she had been drugged with worked fast. She spun around, the world spinning with her, and couldn’t focus on the man before her. His shape kept changing, morphing. He was a dark entity with shiny white teeth that looked like fangs the more she stared at them.

And then the world went dark.

A few minutes after the last text was sent, Ian went for the front door, not sure what else to do. He was looking out, down the road when he crashed into a solid mass. A short, blond, prickly solid mass. John.

“What in Moses’ name are you doing here,” He asked in surprise, shock, and a little bitterness. “Nevermind. I can’t find Sherlock. She’s gone off and isn’t answering texts. Have you heard from her?”

That could only mean one thing.

“Where did you last see her?” John was instantly in soldier mode. His hands steady and the browning tucked behind his jacket was a familiar weight. “Tell me everything you know,” and then he was off towards the party, expecting Ian to follow him.

Ian did follow, giving every piece of information he could remember. Unfortunately he’d never gotten a look at the person she went after, so he couldn’t produce that critical piece of information. He did point John in the direction of the one person who might know, Mr. Gates.

John went straight towards Gates, pushing him against the wall. This was not the gentle man or the jealous man that Ian had met. This was a man capable of killing another to save those he cared about.

“Where. Is. She?” John’s voice barely contained the anger in his tone. “Who are you working for?”

Ian stood back and let John take action, but he saw the fire in Gates’ eyes ignite. “Careful John. This is what he gets off on,” he said with a warning tone. “Isn’t that right, Gates. You love being manhandled. It’s going to take more than a beating to get you to talk, isn’t it?” Between the two of them they must have had enough of an air of authority that no one gave them any trouble, but the crowd did disperse to one side of the room to give them ample space.

“I’m sure Mr. Adler here can have it arranged that no one manhandles you again,” John said, taking his arm off of Gates. “But if you cooperate, I might be kind and beat you myself.” Because tonight, someone was going to bleed. This had all been one big trap and John had been foolish enough to let Sherlock leave his sight. How could he have been such an idiot!

“Jeremy’s dead, you fucking tosser, and if you want to hold on to one fucking stitch of your dignity you’ll tell us everything, right now, or I send your financial transactions and a taped session with you and Elena from my dungeon to your boss.” Ian got in Gates’ face, practically spitting with rage, once John was off him. “Now tell us who lured us here, tell me where I can find him, and tell me where Sherlock’s been taken.”

That seemed to have finally worked. The two of them had gotten to him. “I don’t know where he took her. I swear! I didn’t even see his face properly! He said he’d be here but I have no idea who it would. I swear!”

“But you still met with him. Where?”

“Warehouse on South Harbor.” he said, “I can’t guarantee he’ll be there though. He’s nowhere and everywhere at once!”

“What’s his name, Gates. Give me a name,” Ian hissed. “There’s got to be a name to this person, and don’t you dare take me for a fool by lying to me.”

“M-moriarty!” he stuttered, “Oh god, he’s going to have me killed! You have to help me!”

John no longer cared. “Come on, Ian. We have to find her.” He wouldn’t lose any sleep over Gates’s death.

“If he hurts her, Gates…” He didn’t need to finish the threat. He jogged off after John, taking his coat off in the process. “The warehouse is the first place we should check. You and Sherlock, you work with the police, is… is there someone we can call? Someone who can help sort all this out?” Ian was out of his depth, and begrudgingly had to hand over the reins to John but he’d let his pride suffer later - Sherlock was in very real danger and he sent up a prayer to whoever was still listening to his deviant’s soul that she would be kept alive.

John was already working on it. “Get your car,” he said while he took out his phone. He needed to call Lestrade.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for Rape and violence.

Sherlock woke up, still dizzy. Everything was so dark….

Jim Moriarty sat in a small folding chair, waiting for his new toy to come to full consciousness. He could have some fun with her while she was asleep but there would have been little fun in that. He had tied her to a queen-sized bed, her hands bound tightly above her head and her ankles tied separately to the posts at the foot of the bed. Her shoes were off, but her dress remained, only disturbed from her being moved around.

“Oh, well hello Sherlock, my it’s nice to finally meet you,” He said entirely too brightly for the situation they were in.

Sherlock turned her head to the side, following the voice. As her vision cleared, she saw the dark haired man again. He would seem so unassuming if it weren’t for the predatory look in his eyes.

“If you wanted to meet me,” she said, her voice sounded strange to her, “you could have just asked me out for coffee instead of killing an innocent man.” It had been a trap from the beginning. Jeremy’s death was meant to lure her out into the open. John had been wrong. Ian wasn’t the target, she was.

“Oh, I suppose I could have done that, but it’s just no fun doing things the easy way, is it?” He casually unfolded himself from the chair and stood up, dusting off and meticulously straightening his suit. “You disappointed me, Sherlock. You made it entirely too easy. You let your heart rule your head just like I thought you would. I thought we could be the best kind of friends, equals, but you’re ordinary.”

“I don’t usually make friends with criminal masterminds anyway,” Sherlock said, trying to stay calm. Her heart ruling her head? How did he know that Ian would distract her unless…”You tipped off my brother about my visit to Ian’s club, knowing he would tell John.” Which caused just enough of a distraction for him to get under her defences. “Well played.”

“Ooh, and wasn’t it just? The tightly wound consulting detective cavorting with the famous Whip Hand, and right under your live-in’s nose. Scandalous.” He sat on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap and legs crossed neatly, staring unblinking down at her curves. “I’ve been watching you, Sherlock, following your illustrious career, for such a long time. And how convenient that you chose Mr. Adler as your consultant on those bondage murders. Did you know they were meant to be a message to him?” He slid on a pair of black leather gloves similar to the ones Ian wore and unfolded a knife from his pocket, slowly slicing through the light fabric of her dress. “He wouldn’t take me as a client, sadly,” Moriarty sniffed and flicked his fingers as if it were a trivial thing. “I did have quite a bit of fun with his boy toy before I had him killed though,” he added with a prideful smirk.

“The same kind of fun you’re planning on having wth me,” she said, her voice eerily calm. It hid the panic that threatened her take her over.

“Oh, no, no no, my dear detective, not the same kind of fun at all. What is it that Mr. Adler is so fond of saying? ‘I know what they like.’ Yes. I knew what dear Jeremy liked. I know what you like.” He reached up and gave the ropes that held her wrists a tug, cinching them tighter. She had to think of something quick. Some way of getting out of this alive—and relatively unharmed. This man noticed her for her intellect, her mind.

“You’ve been playing this game with me for some time, haven’t you? My other cases….I bet there would be something that could be led back to you. A thread leading back to your busniess’s web.” The rumors, the shadows in London’s underground. Sherlock had never paid attention to them, because who could do such a thing? A man who can fix anything, for the right price.

“And you are more clever than I give you low marks for. You are correct in that I have quite the little network of criminals, from the petty to the political. Anyone who has a problem that needs solving, in a permanent way, comes and visits me. “Consulting detective meets consulting criminal, isn’t that grand?” He tugged the ragged scraps of her dress aside, admiring the view as he cast his gaze on her.

The air chilled her exposed flesh. Sherlock looked up at her bindings. No, this was certainly not what she liked. “I’m not interested in playing this kind of game with you,” she said, though now her voice was beginning to show her panic. “Untie me. Now.”

“Or what?” Moriarty chuckled and shook his head. “There aren’t many within a mile of this place that can hear you scream and the ones that are within earshot will either tune you out or greatly enjoy the sound. I for one am in the latter camp. And believe me, you will scream.” He ran his fingertips down the center of her body, between her breasts and down to her navel.

“Oh! Do forgive my rudeness, I’m Jim, by the way. Jim Moriarty. I’ve no doubt you haven’t heard of me. But since we’re going to be here for a while, I thought it might be nice for you to know the name of the person who’s going to ruin you.”

Moriarty….So that was the man lurking in the shadows. Sherlock forced herself to stay calm. She wouldn’t give this bastard the satisfaction of showing fear. He was annoyed, but unsurprised by her attempt to be stoic, but Moriarty would break her one way or the other. Instead of making threats and smalltalk, he merely got up and snapped his fingers and from an adjacent room a pair of men emerged with enough leather between them to start a saddle factory. Straps in varying lengths, all thick and black with polished stainless steel fastenings and rings.

Despite whatever struggle Sherlock put up, she was in large part immobilized by her bonds which made it easy for them to put straps around her thighs, calves, abdomen, upper arms, and one around her neck. “You aren’t going to get out of this by boring me, Sherlock. I want you to fear me. I want you… to know who I am, to respect what I can do. I know all about you. I know what you like. I know what you do. I know about your ‘Partner’ and your brother and I can end all of that.”

The straps were tight and didn’t have the same give that rope did. The one around her neck was the worst one— a collar. Sherlock could feel a cold tendril of fear wrap around the base of her spine. There was no getting out of this. The best she could hope for was that she survived it and make Moriarty pay for it. “I’m the one who’s going to end you, Jim,” she growled, glaring up at him.

“Oh, you are precious. I’d like to see you try. You’ve no idea, Sherlock, and you likely never will. I have connections, I have power immeasurable to even you. In a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king. And honey, you should see me in a crown,” he said with a strange bit of sass. With another snap of his fingers, the attendants lifted her off the bed and clipped her to a hook hanging from the ceiling, her toes barely brushing the floor. Above her hung a pair of wide bars with various clips and rings affixed to them, and more than enough leather straps to support an adult female body. When the attendants turned her to face Moriarty, he was strolling leisurely toward her with a riding crop in hand.

The riding crop looked almost exactly like the one Ian had used on her. The one that had given her so much pleasure before. Sherlock knew this would not be the case from this man. She steeled herself as best she could, waiting for the torture to begin.

“It’s a shame Mr. Adler got to you first. I would have loved the honor of marking you first. Of course, the marks I leave on you will last longer,” he said with an almost conversational tone. It was as if this was a normal day at the office and he was going over an expense report. He turned her away from him and let the crop come crashing down on her, leaving a dark red streak across her backside. Sherlock gasped, her body jerking away from the contact. Her body swung back and forth in the air by the momentum only.

“I can already tell he’s better at it than you are,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

He said nothing, merely bringing the crop down on her again, leaving another vicious streak across her backside to match the first. Then a third, and fourth and fifth and sixth.

“Better perhaps,” he said slightly winded from the efforts, “But it’s all relative. He might be good at making you feel good but all I want is for you to hurt. I didn’t get first dibs at marking you but I certainly won’t turn up an opportunity to punish you for being the disappointing waste of flesh that you are.” Two more strokes with the crop. “I had such high hopes.”

She couldn’t stop herself from crying out a few times as he struck her. Her cries were music to his ears. The pain spread through her body, each strike making it more intense. “Disappointing in what?” she asked, taking a deep breath, “For being human? Having a sex life?” A drop of sweat fell down from her temple.

“The consulting detective and the consulting criminal, Sherlock, we were going to make history. But you’re boring, you’re ordinary, just like the rest. All this time, all this setup, all the watching and waiting and you made it so easy. So now I’ve got to have my fun some other way.” He tossed the crop aside, skimming his fingers along the marks striping her hide. “So many options, I can hardly decide what I want to do to you first.”

Sherlock kicked out at him when she felt him close, touching her. What did it matter anyway? His intent was already to cause her enough pain as possible. There was no reason for her not to fight back while she had the strength. The least it can do is annoy him.

He laughed at her as she kicked out and stood back to let her sway on her bindings. “Yes, fight back. Show me that fire. You’re not just the Whip Hand’s whore then, bending over and giving him what he wants whenever you two get in the mood.” He reached out and spun her to face him, reaching for her nipples and giving them a rough squeeze and pull.

“And you’re just a sick bastard!” she hissed, trying to fight over the pain. Sherlock spat in his face.

“You’re just getting that now?” He chuckled and wiped the saliva from his face, wiped it across her breast, and slapped her in return. “That’s for spitting on me. That was just rude.” He reached and took hold of a strip of leather with a clip on the end, trailing it down to her ankle. Once clipped, he cinched it short, hoisting her leg into the air and exposing her sex to the cool air of the room. “This will be to make up for it,” he practically purred as his fingertips ghosted over her labia, taking great pleasure in the way the velvety flesh gave way to his leather-gloved fingertips.

Oh god, how she wanted to pull away. It was just wrong….Sherlock looked up, wondering if she could somehow pull herself up and undo the links on her wrists and ankle. She was beginning to panic.

“Go on. Fight. I want to watch you squirm,” he said as he got a fist full of her hair with his free hand, fingertips from his other hand circling her clit before digging two fingers deep into her. “Oh… you are snug. Good to know Adler hasn’t worn your cunt out completely yet.” Sherlock groaned in pain, trying to move away from him by pure instinct. She wanted him to stop it but begging would be pointless.

His teasing and tormenting went on for the better part of three hours. Pinching, slapping, stroking her clit, giving her his fingers roughly two and three at a time in both ends and laughing in delight at her body’s natural response, despite her pain and fear. He stopped periodically to rearrange her bonds, adjust her position, and when he’d finally grown tired of the game he fixed her so she hung from her wrists and ankles from the ceiling, lowering her to where with just a simple unbuckling of his belt and unbuttoning of his trousers, he could penetrate her and fuck her to his heart’s content.

Her body had betrayed her. No matter how hard Sherlock fought it, a few soft moans would escape her lips to Moriarty’s delight. The stimulation had been too much. The pain and anxiety and forced pleasure had completely exhausted her. By the time Jim decided to finally fuck her, Sherlock was limp in her bindings, staring up at the ceiling while she felt him move inside her.

Rather than finish inside her, as much as he would delight in it, he took his fill of her and at his peak, released across her belly and breasts and cheek, letting the warm sticky fluid cool on her skin. He let out a satisfied sigh and released her feet, letting her hang with just enough slack to rest on the balls of her feet. “Maybe not so disappointing after all. You get points for being a good fuck, anyway,” He purred as he caressed her cheek with the glove that was still damp with her juices.

“You disgust me,” she said quietly, her voice weak. At least it was over now….Sherlock was not going to let him ruin her. She would survive this and move on with her life. After killing him, of course. Already, she was going over her options on how to torture him to an inch of his life before finally ending it. Many of them involved strong acid to his tongue and groin.

He clucked his tongue and gave her a smile that was mocking in its sympathy. “Oh, Sherlock, and here I thought we were just starting to get along,” he replied, pushing a few dark curls off her sweaty brow. “Rest yourself a bit. I’ll send someone around to give you water and we’ll start again.”

Start again?

“No. You’ve had your fun, now let me go!” she snarled. How long was he planning on keeping her here?

“Let you go? What, so you can go running off to your army boy and your fancy Dom and your detective inspector and big brother and send your little rag tag brigade of heroes after me? You’re pretty but I didn’t think you’d be funny too,” he replied with a shake of his head.

“How long to you intend to keep me here?” she asked with a sinking feeling in her gut. He shrugged, stripping off his gloves and pocketing them.

“Until I get bored of you. After that, I’ll send you off with one of my most trusted associates, who’ll likely take his fill of you too, before giving you the same treatment dear Jeremy got. Such a darling boy but my use for him ran out, I’m afraid.”

So he planned on killing her after all. Not good. Sherlock lowered her head. She had to find a way to escape before it was too late.

“Oh, and Sherlock -” he said he went to stroll through the door, “Don’t bother trying to escape. If you do, I will make certain you have no one left to go home to - Not that you’re going home, of course.”

“Then you don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Sherlock laughed bitterly. As powerful as this man tried to make himself appear to be, she could trust her brother to protect himself and those she cared about. John was a soldier, he could handle himself. And Ian…John wouldn’t let him die.

“Clearly, neither do you,” he tossed over his shoulder as he walked out and shut the door, leaving her there to hang, naked and bruising and sticky.


	5. Chapter 5

Ian and John had been misled. Taking Ian’s car, they’d gone to every warehouse in the vicinity of where they’d been told Sherlock might be, and with every minute passed, with every empty, filthy warehouse they came across, desperation began rising to the surface. Moriarty was clearly a psychopath. What interest he had in Sherlock was unknown but the limited amount of information that Lestrade and Mycroft had been able to uncover about the man was that he was rich, powerful, connected, completely sadistic, and had absolutely no regard for human life.

“I’m so sorry, John,” Ian murmured, not for the first time as they criscrossed London, following another one of many remotely possible possible leads they had managed to unearth.

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to,” John responded. He never would have let Sherlock gone off on her own, especially when she was in that state. She could be reckless when the pieces of the puzzle weren’t fitting right. It left her vulnerable and that’s how that damn bastard got his hands on her. “You mentioned Moriarty once contacted you, wanting to take you on as a client. What happened?” Ian sighed and flexed his fingers on the steering wheel before answering.

“I practice safe, sane, consensual, and fun methods. Ultimately, my club, my rules. I have a variety of associates that offer varying levels of intensity in their individual tastes, but the one rule is safe, sane, consensual.” He emphasised the words because far too often people came to him looking for ways to push sexual encounters too far. “Moriarty wanted to learn about bondage, about the entire lifestyle, from a Dom’s perspective, but he wanted far more than fit into the ‘sane’ category so I turned him away and I instructed my associates to stay away from him. He obviously bought off my assistant and one of my most hardcore mistresses.”

“You have a specific space for when you do this stuff. Your club.” John pondered that thought for a moment. “If Moriarty is interested in this stuff and he has Sherlock…” He felt sick just thinking about it. “She’s probably where he’s set up his space.”

“Yes, and every place we’ve been to so far would be a sadist’s wet dream if he wanted to set up a dungeon,” Ian replied a bit desperately. “If he’s going to do to her - if he’s… already done to her… what I think he might have planned, we’ll be looking for a big space that can be readily insulated for sound, or a place a good distance away from wandering ears. He means to hurt her, and not in a way that transcends the pain-pleasure threshold.”

John nodded, though paling a bit. They already had checked most of the warehouses in London, though they hadn’t searched abandoned factories or flats. But this man was rich, powerful, and most likely arrogant as well. He’d want something stylish for his play pen. A stage that he could set up…a stage! John picked up his phone. calling Lestrade “Get me a list of every closed down theatre in London!”

With the economy, there were a number of closed theaters and performance spaces in the London area but with a bit of searching and back tracking, only two were able to be narrowed down, both ultimately connected to an umbrella corporation that had suspicious dealings and more than likely was owned and operated by Moriarty.

Sherlock had fallen unconscious and awoke when she heard footsteps approaching. She became instantly alert. Was Jim already ready for round two? An attendant approached with a bottle of water, which he tipped toward Sherlock’s mouth.

“Drink. If you lash out at me the boss has given me permission to beat you bloody.” In this position, it wasn’t like she could get a good strike anyways. She drank the water eagerly, not realizing how thirsty she was. Once she’d had her fill, the attendant capped the bottle, set it aside, and exited without another word, leaving her alone with her thoughts once, left alone again. He’d secretly been hoping she’d misbehave but left unsatisfied.

Now with a bit of strength back in her, Sherlock worked on trying to get out of the leather straps. She had to be quick about it. The straps were tight but Moriarty enjoyed watching her struggle against them. She’d give up or dislocate something trying and then give up, but he sat in front of a closed-circuit television watching her dangle and go throught he motions of her escape.

So focused on her escape that it was only when she took a break to breath did she notice the camera. Shit. There was no doubt in her mind that she had an audience.

“Ready for round two, Sherlock?” he said into a microphone which fed into a speaker in the room where she hung. “I believe we may have an audience this time,” he said with an amused tone. Word had come that the doctor and the dom were en route, having finally discovered his hiding place. If they managed to get past initial security, he wanted to give them a show for when they arrived.

An audience? Was that perverted attendent going to watch or participate in the next beating? Sherlock glared up at the camera, but didn’t say a word.

The attendant in question came into her ‘room’, roughly tied a blindfold over her eyes and unclipped her from the rail where she’d hung and then tossed her over one bulky shoulder. He carried her wordlessly to another room and set her on her knees on a hardwood surface. He clipped her hands together above her head, and placed a another clip at the back of her neck. “We’ve got some friends on the way, Sherlock, aren’t you excited?” Moriarty crooned from a few feet away. He pulled the blindfold off to reveal a stage, with a solitary spotlight shining down on her.

“John,” she whispered. He had found her. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether or not to be thrilled or terrified. She took in the sight of the stage. It was an old, classic theatre most likely abandoned a few years ago but kept in good repair. The perfect place for this bastard. He strolled across the stage and entered the spotlight with her, reaching down with a bare hand and touching her cheek before gripping her chin.

“My, my. Your powers of deduction seem to be coming back to you. Perhaps our little game has helped you, what do you think?”

“They never left,” she said, looking up at him defiantly. He crouched low and got in her face.

“Why did you never figure out the pieces of the puzzle then! I handed you so many wonderfully debauched crimes, you stupid tart, and you never thought they might be connected? I painted you a portrait of mayhem and you never noticed!” He was yelling, his voice carrying to all corners of the performance hall. “Nevermind. Don’t talk. Your mouth has much better uses than talking,” he growled as he stood up and took a hand full of her hair, ratcheting her head back to look up at him.

Sherlock frowned. “You were courting me.” He had been trying to get his attention for some time now, but what had changed? Ian…The thought made her laugh, her entire body shaking. “You got jealous!” It all made sense now in an entirely sick way.

“Shut up— Just shut up, you—” He scowled and pulled her hair harder, exerting his strength but rapidly losing his cool and his confidence. “John Watson is beneath you. Ian Adler is even further beneath you and yet you couldn’t wait to spread your legs for him. I had so much respect for you until darling Jeremy shared with me that Adler got to you first. But that’s alright. I’ve got you now.” He used the leverage of his hand in her hair to pull her forward, demonstrating the tether that was attached to her collar.

“If you bite me, I will knock you unconscious. If you fall over, you’ll hang yourself. I don’t think I have to make myself any more clear.” The collar around her neck tightened, causing her to gasp for air.

“You’re just pissed that neither of us gave you what you wanted.” Even through the pain and humiliation, Sherlock couldn’t help but enjoy how she finally got underneath the psychopath’s skin. It almost made what she was about to be forced to do bearable.

He released her hair and backhanded her, not hard enough to push her over but enough to sting. “I always get what I want, through any means necessary,” he growled as he undid his belt and trousers again, cock already straining in his pants. The violence was what got him heated. Sherlock was just a trigger for his release. He grabbed her by the hair again and pressed the tip of his cock to her lips with an expectant raise of his eyebrow. Chatter in the earpiece nested in his ear informed him that her ‘rescuers’ were getting close. They would have a hell of a fight ahead of them, but if they survived - which wasn’t unlikely - they would find Sherlock naked, beaten, and in the process of being used. He would use the encounter to bring them all down, himself included if he had to.

Sherlock had no choice but to open her mouth and let Moriarty use her. She took a deep breath, not sure if he was going to let her have that luxury.

Back up was on the way, but John wasn’t going to wait. Not if Moriarty was torturing and raping Sherlock at this very second. He pulled out his Browning and made sure the safety was off. There would be no hesitation in killing anyone who got in his way.

Moriarty took his time indulging in Sherlock’s mouth. He heard shots being fired in the distance, voices yelling, but tuned it out. In his head, he had a soundtrack playing and he leisurely sank his cock in beween Sherlock’s lips to the rhythm of Bach’s Partita no. 1.

Ian had never used a gun in his life, but he found that in the heat of the moment, with Sherlock’s life hanging in the balance, he had no problem picking one up and learning to use it on the fly, getting in ample practice as Moriarty’s men defended their space.

It took all of Sherlock’s will not to bite the bastard’s cock off. At least she was able to get a quick breath in inbetween every gagging thrust. The gunfire and shouting was getting closer. John was almost here.

If John hadn’t been an army medic, the military would have trained him as a sniper because of his skill with a gun. Three men were already down and they were making ground. He looked over at Ian to see the man holding up well. Good. Soon, the two crashed through the doors of the theatre, facing the main stage and John’s heart sank at the sight. “Sherlock!”

The minute the doors opened, Moriarty gave a powerful thrust and came down Sherlock’s throat, holding her there for a long moment while she struggled and squirmed and gagged. He pulled away and then hauled her to her feet to show off his work.

“Oh hello boys! So glad you could join the party. Doctor Watson, Ian and I have already had a go at her, would you like your turn now? She’s all ready and loosened up just for you.” From the balcony above where the two men stood, a laser sight’s red dot appeared right between Sherlock’s breasts. “I wish I had known about your marksmanship skills sooner, Doctor Watson, I hear you’re quite the crack shot. You would have been well suited in my employ. I suppose it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

Sherlock kept her head up, keeping her eyes on the two of them. Ian was here as well and had even used a gun. Probably killed a man. She glanced up at the balcony and saw the snipers were pointed at her. At least it wasn’t on those two yet.

John kept his gun up, but didn’t fire. He couldn’t risk Sherlock being shot by the sniper. “Let her go, Moriarty. It’s over. The theatre is surrounded.” Moriarty stood behind Sherlock, using her as a shield and letting the spotlight shine on her almost exclusively, her naked, bruised, bitten, whipped, slapped, fucked frame on full display.

“Don’t be silly, Doctor Watson, I haven’t had nearly enough time with our dear detective. We’ve just begun, haven’t we darling?” He reached around her and caressed her breast, giving her nipple a rough pinch, while the other hand went lower, between her thighs, giving her sex a lewd stroke.

“I’m going to kill you myself,” she hissed.

“You are not taking her!” John felt sick. All of that had been done by him. Above where John and Ian stood, two shots were heard and the men on the balcony were down, the Yard finally catching up with them.

Ian was struck with an idea born of desperation, then. He had seen John in action during their initial assault, knew he was capable. “Can you hit him from here? At this angle?” he whispered from the corner of his mouth. “At least… clip him, distract him.” Moriarty scowled at the balcony and by the time Ian turned his eyes to the stage again, Sherlock was being dragged off into the wings, still being used as a shield. “Fuck - He’s moving, go!”

John raced after Moriarty and Sherlock, not letting her leave his sight. He was not going to lose her again. Sherlock tried to make it as difficult as possible for him to drag her away, pulling and grabbing anything in reach. But he had her by the collar, choking her the entire time. She had to keep up with him to get any sort of breath. Moriarty had had just about enough of Sherlock’s struggling and slammed her against a wall, aware that the doctor was hot on their heels.

“If you don’t cooperate, you fucking slag, I will snap your neck, do you understand me? Move,” He said as he shoved her ahead of him, intent on making it to a safe room before being caught. When he slammed her against a wall, the force of it caused a vase to fall and shatter on the ground. Sherlock made a play at tripping, quickly getting up…with a shard tucked under her wrist cuff. She had no choice but the let him push her into the safe room, falling to the ground in front of him once more.

Once inside the safe room with the door firmly locked, Moriarty was on her once again, shoving her to the floor with fire in his eyes. Ian caught up with John, having gone the opposite way in the hopes of heading them off, but both men had failed.

“I’m going to kill him,” Ian hissed, “I’m going to beat him to a bloody pulp and piss on his fucking corpse.”

“Sherlock!” John slammed his body against the safe room. It would take over an hour for the Yard to break through the steal door and by then….”Sherlock!” Inside the room, Sherlock turned over so she was facing Jim, trying to push him away.

“Get off of me,” she snarled.

“The only way I’m ‘getting off’ is on you or in you,” he growled in return. He could hear both men slamming against the door outside and it only fueled his fire. “I am going to love letting those boys hear you screaming, Sherlock,” he crooned with a wild look in his eyes. He knew he was losing control of the situation but he wasn’t about to let Sherlock go without a fight. “That’s a good girl,” he cooed, “fight me, fight back, it’ll make fucking you that much sweeter.”

With her hands on his shoulders, Sherlock tried to grab the shard that was cutting into her wrist. Him pinning her down made it hard to do so, though.

“It’s over, Moriarty! You’ve lost!” She could already feel him hard against her thigh.

“Not by half, Sherlock, not by half,” he said before rolling her over, resting a knee against her back as he undid his trousers again. Her struggling had him hard as steel again and he was determined to have her one more time before ending her. Once his cock was free of his pants, he went about grasping her bottom hard and pushing the cheeks apart, grinding between them.

Sherlock gasped. No. No more. She pushed back hard enough to sit up and twisted around, the shard in her hand. It sliced her own skin, but she managed to jam the thing into the side of Jim’s neck.

Jim felt the impact but the shard of porcelain was so sharp he’d hardly felt the cut at first. He gasped from the impact to his windpipe but didn’t waste a moment backhanding Sherlock and sending her toppling to the floor. When he noticed his shirt becoming damp and warm, he looked down and that was when realization hit him. She’d stabbed him in the throat and he was bleeding out profusely. He scrambled to get up to find something to put pressure against the wound, but his trousers tripped him up and he fell face first onto the concrete floor. Gasping, groaning, cursing, he laid there until he lost consciousness .

Sherlock rolled over to see him bleeding out on the floor, his now limp cock hanging out quite embarrisngly. A pathetic end to a pathetic man. Sherlock quickly got up and ran for the door.

“John! Ian!” she unlocked it, pushing it open.

When John heard her voice, he fell back. Please let her have escaped.

When the door swung open, Ian sprang through, gathering Sherlock up and hugging her unabashedly. He saw the body of Moriarty with the halo of blood blossoming around his head and torso breathed a sigh of relief. He quickly shrugged out of his waistcoat, undid his shirt, pocketing his tie and cufflinks, and took the shirt off to wrap around her.

“Come on, darling. It’s over. You did fantastic,” he murmured as he guided her out to let John reunite with her.

“I wished I could have made him suffer,” she muttered, trying to remove the leather cuffs on her wrists. Her right had was bleeding.

John shrugged off his coat and tore a strip to wrap her hand up until they could get stiches in it. Then he wrapped the rest of it around her shoulders. An extra layer of warmth.

“Come and sit down,” Ian said as he guided her to a table. “Let’s get all this nasty leather off of you,” he added as he lifted her gently and sat her on the tabletop, unbuckling the cuffs, the collar, the ankle cuffs, thigh cuffs, and the belt around her middle. “Christ. I’m so sorry Sherlock, I should never have let you go off by yourself.”

Lestrade and his men finally came in, instantly securing the scene. When he saw the state Sherlock was in, he sent nearly half of the team out. They had worked with her before and he knew that Sherlock would never forgive hm if they saw her like that.

“It’s not your fault, Ian,” she murmured, not putting up any resistance as he removed the straps from her. The numbness was coming back to her, the world caving in around her.

“Sherlock,” John said, “Look at me. Just conentrate on my face and voice. You’re going into shock. We need to keep you conscious.” And Sherlock obeyed, keeping her eyes hazingly on him.

“John, get her to A&E, she needs medical treatment,” he said, barely remembering that John was a doctor. She did need a hospital though, and soon. “I’ll stay here and deal with … this. I know more about Moriarty anyway. Go on.” He cupped Sherlock’s face and took in the sight of her, sadness filling him not only because he realized he was ultimately responsible for her ending up this way, but also because he doubted she’d ever weant to be around him again after all this was cleared up. He sighed and pressed a kiss to her brow, whispering another apology to her before stepping back. “Take care of her, please.”

John nodded silently and put an arm around her waist. He knew better than to try to carry her. Slowly, he lead her out and avoided as many of the crowds as he could. He found the paramedics and let them set her up on the gurney and after identifying himself as her doctor, they let him ride with her. Sherlock was quiet the entire ride to the hospital.

True to his word, Ian stayed behind and recounted the entire story to DI Lestrade, cooperating to the best of his ability and apologizing profusely for the dust-up.

“You’re not the first one to go running into a situation bollocks-out, Mr. Adler,” Lestrade said with a shake of his head. “Sherlock knows how to get herself into trouble and she’s got Doctor Watson trained quite well how to get her out of it.”

At the hospital, John (At Sherlock’s insistence) helped with all of Sherlock’s external wounds. He carefully cleaned the lacerations along her back and bottom and put sutures in her palm where she’d sliced it on the broken vase. But the internal… He left her alone with a female doctor to take care of that. When the doctor came back out, she informed him that Sherlock was put under sedation and moved to another room to rest. John went straight there to be at her side. To watch over her as she slept.

Eventually, Ian was released and given the standard ‘don’t leave town’ speech. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go to his office. He wanted to go to the hospital. He wanted to phone up one of his more resilient subs and whip them thoroughly to take out his anger on something. Instead, he just sat in his car a while, contemplating the state of things. After a while he made his way to the hospital where he knew Sherlock had been taken. Even if he couldn’t see her, he would feel better hearing that she was alright. A nurse came into the room and asked John about a Mr. Adler coming to visit. He gave permission to let him come in. Sherlock would have wanted that…right?

Ian entered, still in his undershirt and tuxedo trousers. He was a far cry from the confident, cocky businessman John had met the day before. His eyes fell on Sherlock’s sleeping form, monitors all around her like an electronic halo, electrodes and tubes sticking out of her from every which way.

“Christ,” he mumbled as he took in the sight of her. “John… how is she? Thank you… for letting me visit.”

“She’s sedated. She’s got a lot of bruising and welts from being beaten. Stiches on her hand, a few cuts along her backside and thighs…” John trailed off and swallowed hard. This wasn’t like running down the injury list of any old patient. “As you might suspect, she also has injuries consistent with violent sexual assault,” he added quietly, giving a clincal but intentionally vague description. Ian wasn’t a stupid man, he would know.

“They performed a rape kit even though we already know who did it. Just…procedure.” John rubbed a hand over his face, “She’s on morphine and antibiotics to make sure she doesn’t catch infection. And they’re running tests to make sure he didn’t give her anything, though she’ll need to be re-tested in a few weeks and a few months just to be sure.”

“She’s incredible,” He murmured quietly as he walked to the opposite side that John had been guarding. He trailed his fingertips down her forearm and over her fingers, cautious of the bandage and the I.V. lines. “I will regret letting her out of my sight for the rest of my days. I live a certain lifestyle in my line of work but never… ever… would I wish anything I or my associates do to escalate to this. Please understand that, John. I am not… that monster.”

“I know,” he said, swallowing thickly. “And I know that I was being a fucking arse to you and Sherlock yesterday. I drove her away and I couldn’t be there beside her. Protecting her….” He sighed, “We can’t blame ourselves. Moriarty had been planning this for some time. At least we were able to find her.”

Ian nodded, stuffing his hands in his pockets and watching her sleep. She was just as peaceful as she’d been the night before, sleeping away in his guest room. “She’s strong. Defiant. Entirely too intelligent for her own good. I can’t, with her personality, imagine she has many friends, especially of the male variety. You were well within your rights to feel protective.” He closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his face and through his hair. “And I, like a complete tosser, promised I’d keep her safe and I let you down.”

“She’ll get through this.” His voice was a bit steadier now. “She’ll get through this…”

Ian stayed a bit longer, but left before visitor’s hours were up. It would do no one any good for him to linger, and he had a business to run anyway. He left with the promise to return in the morning with Sherlock’s belongings and a curt nod and handshake from John.

John didn’t sleep the entire night, keeping vigil over her. Every once in awhile, he check her medication supplies and add a bit more painkillers and fluids to her body. He didn’t want her to be in pain when she woke up, knowing her body was more resistant to drugs due to her past habit.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock looks to John for comfort from the nightmares. She looks to Ian for comfort in the bedroom.

By mid-morning, Sherlock had awoken. Mycroft had come in to check on her, though he didn’t stay long. Just enough time to say he was glad to see her alive and leave. He also blamed himself for falling into Moriarty’s trap as well. Lestrade came in to take her statement. He was the only one she would talk to. Sherlock’s expression was emotionless as well as her voice as she recounted what had happend, leaving no detail out. It was more professional than one would imagine a victim to be. John sat in a corner, listening in agony to every word.

After a sleepless night of his own, Ian went to the club to check mail and messages, then made his way to the hospital, Sherlock’s overnight bag in hand from when she’d left it at his flat. Despite his promise the night before, he once again asked permission to visit, unsure if in the cold light of day, he’d be permitted.When the nurse came in to tell her about Ian coming to visit again, Sherlock hesitated.

“Let him up.”

Ian made his way up and into her room, tapping the doorframe to announce his arrival. He was at once pleased and nervous to see her awake so soon. He gave her a kind smile though, and stepped into the room, setting her bag aside.

“You’re awake. I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I know you’ll lie and say you’re fine,” he said trying to inject a bit of good-natured humor into his words.

“I’d hate to disappoint you, but I feel like shit.” Sherlock tried to sit up, groaning a bit. The pain was dulled, but her entire body hurt. He let out a sigh, his shoulders sagging some.

“I can’t even imagine,” he murmured. He approached the bed and held out a hand. “May I?” To his relief, Sherlock gave him her hand.

“John, when are you going to get me out of here?” she asked after a moment.

“Once the tests come back in, saying you’re fine.” He saw the bag and said, “At least I don’t need to run back to get you clothes.” Cautious of her injuries, Ian sat on the edge of her bed and held her hand between both of his, fingertips stroking her palm.

“You look a lot better than I expected,” he said in a pleased tone. “I brought your things from mine, since we didn’t exactly get a chance to go back for them last night,” he added as he nodded back toward the bag. “I can’t stay long, and I can’t imagine you want a lot of company anyway. I wanted to come by and see that you were going to be alright.”

“He’s dead now. I’ll manage.” There was no way Sherlock was going to tell Ian what had triggered this. Their relationship. Their friendship. John knew but she could trust him to not say anything as well. He wasn’t that kind of man. “This hasn’t been the first time I’ve woken up in a hospital or have nearly been killed.”

“You live a dangerous life, Ms. Holmes,” he said with a sad smile.

“Thank you,” He said after a moment, as he brought her hand to his lips and gingerly kissed her bruised knuckles. “He betrayed me in the end but I still cared for Jeremy very much, and you helped me bring closure to his death. You are a remarkable woman and I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.” He had a tone of finality to his voice, figuring that after all she’d endured she’d never want anything to do with anyone like himself ever again, and with good reason. Sherlock didn’t say a word. She knew why he was doing this.There was nothing she could say. John decided to interject, holding his hand out to Ian.

“Goodbye, Ian. You’re quite handy with a gun. You should work on it and don’t get rusty.”

“I will, John, thank you,” he said as he stood up to take John’s hand, shaking firmly. “Take care of her. As best you can, anyway. And you get well soon. I’d tell you to stay out of trouble but we both know that’s never going to happen,” he said to Sherlock. With that, he gave Sherlock a final wave and turned on his heel to leave.

“I’ll…go and see about your release.” John said to Sherlock as Ian left, knowing she would become insufferable if left to linger in hospital for too long.

Three hours later and they were both back at Baker Street, Sherlock still under the bliss of sedation and sleeping soundly in her bed. She would spend the next several days and weeks healing and recovering physically, pretending that mentally and emotionally she was perfectly intact.

——

A week after the incident, Ian had his club opened up again, with a newly hired assistant and it was business as usual. He went back to his normal clientele, losing himself in the rope work and whippings and letting The Whip Hand rule his head but The Woman was never far from his mind. He contemplated replacing his desk, but she still remained in every corner of his office so it would be redundant. He wondered about her, though, every time he sat down to do the books or write paychecks. He tried at first to studiously ignore it, but the little white card constantly caught his attention.

——

It was a month after the attack that she started having the nightmares. John only discovered them when he woke up one night to find her in his bed. Wordlessly, he gathered her up into his arms and held her; it helped and they were both able to sleep a bit better after it. It was another three weeks before Sherlock was allowed to take cases again. Mycroft, Lestrade, and John all ganged up on her, saying she needed to rest before going back out on the field. Mycroft diverted private clients, Lestrade refused to even let her set foot in the Yard, and John tried to mitigate the madness by allowing her to perform as many experiments she liked and even got Molly to bring in fresh body parts daily.

No one knew if Sherlock was improving or not. They had no idea how she would react to the incident. It was one thing to be almost murdered, it was another thing to be raped and tortured by a monster. She had closed herself off and worked on her experiments. She would still insult people and complain when she didn’t get her way and in almost all aspects, acted normally. But when she thought John wasn’t looking, he could see the emptiness in her eyes. He needed to do something, but he wasn’t sure what.

——

Ian gave Sherlock two months of recovery, then decided to try texting, just to break the ice. He knew it was a long shot, but he wanted to at least check on her.

I understand if this message goes ignored, but I wanted to attempt to touch base with you at least. Hope you’ve recovered well and are back out on the trail of London’s criminals. -Ian.

You’re an idiot. -SH

The message struck him strangely, and he found himself staring at it for a few minutes before replying.

Perhaps I am. What was that for, exactly? -Ian.

For thinking I’m a simple person who wouldn’t want to see the man that helped save her life just because he listened to her orders and left her alone when she ran off after a madman. And you haven’t contacted me sooner. -SH

Oh… Sherlock I am sorry. I thought… after what Moriarty put you through you’d rather not have any contact. Forgive me for underestimating you. -Ian.

Enough apologizing. I don’t need that. -SH

To be fair, you haven’t exactly reached out either. You knew I was bowing out, didn’t you. -Ian.

Shut up. -SH

Defeats the purpose of staying in touch, if I shut up. -Ian.

Must I send a formal invitation or will you just stop by unannounced like the tradition seems to entail? -SH

Would you like me to stop by unannounced? -Ian.

Obviously. -SH

You, of course, are welcome to drop by unannounced at your leisure as well. -Ian

I can’t go to your club, Ian. -SH

Right. Stupid of me. You know where I live though. -Ian.

Stop being difficult and get your arse over here. Now I think I understand how John feels having to deal with me all the time. It’s quite unpleasant. -SH

Never thought I’d see the day when I said this, but yes Ma’am. -Ian.

I’ll make tea. -SH

Half an hour later, Ian appeared at the door to 221 Baker Street, and rang the bell. He was dressed decidedly different from his ‘work’ wear, changing out the battle armor for well-fit jeans and a slim-fitting cowl-neck jumper. Sherlock answered the door, a bit surprised by Ian’s attire. But as her nightmares had involved expensive suits and tons of leather, she was grateful for it.

“Good timing. The tea is done,” she said in place of a formal greeting. “John is working at the clinic before you ask.” He wasn’t going to ask, simply going with the flow regardless of John’s presence. He found himself slightly eased by the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to deal with the hyperprotective doctor swanning about though.

“Wasn’t going to ask, but thank you for letting me know,” he said as he followed her up the staircase. He noticed she’d thinned again, unsurprising considering what she’d endured.

Honestly, she had no idea why she wanted him around. After serving tea, she asked how his business was doing and whether he had found a new assisstant. Small talk. One of the things she absolutely hated. He sat and placated her with small talk for a while, drinking tea and regaling her with tales of his new help and some of the more amusing sights around the club. It grew tiresome after a while, and he could see Sherlock floundering for something to come up with to discuss.

Once that was over, they ended up sitting in silence for some time. She could sense his eyes on her, the concern hidden beneath. Yes, she had lost much weight. The morphine had done most of it. It had been difficult for her to give it up due to her addictive nature. The drugs had just numbed everything. And when the nightmares began, it was only until she began sleeping with John was she able to get any rest. Only when he was holding her.

“Ian,” she said quietly, finally looking up at him, “I want you to have sex with me.”

He pursed his lips, trying to mask his knock-me-over shock at her request. He steepled his hands in front of his mouth a moment, watching her, but she made no move to take back what she’d said. Of course she wouldn’t, she meants everything she says and says exactly what she means, he thought to himself.

“You want to have sex. You’re sure? I don’t mean to treat you like a withering violet, but I want you to be certain.”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in her voice. He certainly couldn’t deny that he still desired her, and if she was consenting he’d give her what she needed. He nodded, then.

“Alright.” Sherlock silently got up and turned to go to her bedroom, expecting him to follow. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she wasn’t sure why exactly. The bed was made. She hadn’t slept in it in over two weeks. Ian got up and followed behind, leaning on the doorframe and watching her as she stepped into the bedroom. When she stopped in the center of the room, he walked in, and stepped behind her, sliding his arms around her and pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.

When Ian’s arms circled her waist, she instinctively tensed. But the warm lips on her neck made her relax again. Sherlock turned around in his arms and looked him in the eyes, silently telling him not to sneak up on her. If this was going to work, she needed to see him the entire time.

He could read her expression plain as day and vowed to keep his eyes on hers as much as he could, to let her see him, show her he was here for her, and had only her safety and pleasure in mind. He tipped his head and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, then rested his forehead against hers, letting his hands come up to hold her face.

“I’m putting the control in your hands, Sherlock. You tell me what you want, what you need, and it’s yours.”

“I want…” Sherlock closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I want you to touch me. Everywhere.” Her eyes then opened again, watching him.

“Do you want me to undress you?” Ian asked as his hands went from her face to her shoulders, lightly fingering the buttons of her shirt. She nodded silently.

“Keep your eyes on me. Focus on me, on my face, on my voice, Sherlock,” he said softly. “Don’t close your eyes unless you absolutely have to.” His fingertips easily opened the buttons of her shirt, top to bottom, and slid it off of her shoulders to the floor. The bruises had all faded, but still the memories assaulted her of the last time she was stripped. Sherlock forced her breathing to stay even as Ian undressed her, removing her trousers and setting her on the edge of the bed to take off her socks. Finally, her bra and knickers. Once again, Sherlock was fully exposed to this man. Standing back up, Sherlock put her hands on his chest.

“I’m going to undress you now,” she said with masked confidence. Ian nodded, lifting his arms to let her pull his jumper over his head. Sherlock did so, slowly. There was still discomfort in her right hand, though John had removed the stitches weeks ago. She had him take his turn sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes and socks. Finally, her hands went to his belt and hesitated. He sensed her hesitation and slowly put his hands over hers.

“Take your time. Remember your safeword. And know that I won’t be upset with you at all if we stop now or an hour from now. Alright? You’re safe. You’re safe with me. You know that.”

“I know that,” she said, finally unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers. Sherlock knelt down and slid them with his pants down to his ankles. Now they were both exposed. She looked back up at him.

He stepped out of his trousers and pants and nudged them aside, looking down at her in her knelt position. He offered his hand to her to help her stand if she wanted it, but otherwise made no move to push her to do anything outside of what she’d decided she wanted to do. Sherlock took it, grasping it more tightly than she had meant to, and stood up to face him.

“Kiss me.” They’d kissed before in a heated exchange in Ian’s office, but never as deliberately or intimately as what she was requesting. Ian nodded and stepped into her space, one hand on her cheek, the other wrapping around her waist. He tipped his head and kissed her forehead again, then lower to her mouth. His lips brushed hers a few chaste times, then his lips parted and took her upper lip between them, giving a gentle tug. He did the same with her bottom lip, worrying it with his tongue before releasing it. Finally, he pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her properly.

She opened her mouth, moving with him into the kiss. Her hands were fixed firmly on his shoulders but aside from that, she remained relaxed in his arms. Like everything he did, he gave her only pleasure. He stroked her jaw gently with his thumb while his tongue sought hers out. His mouth moved easily against hers, and he thoroughly enjoyed the taste and feel of her kiss. As a general rule, because of the romantic notion behind it, he didn’t kiss clients and he certainly didn’t kiss his subs. In this, though, they were equals. Friends, lovers, companions, they would discuss that later. Right now, he was happy to be kissing her, and happy to give her everything she needed and wanted.

Slowly, Sherlock became more relaxed. Her hands began exploring Ian’s body, running along his arms, his chest, his sides. For now, she ignored the groin area. There was no rush and she needed to be sure and comfortable with each movement she made. She pressed closer to him, manuevering them both towards the bed.

Ian let her touch and explore, his own hands sliding over her soft skin, up her back, over her shoulders, down her arms, avoiding the more intimate places until she made the first move. It was extremely intimate, far moreso than the shibari and whipping sessions he had grown accustomed to. Each touch was a promise of trust. He sat down on the bed as she led them in that direction, breaking the kiss and letting her step between his knees. He leaned in and pressed kisses to her belly and the center of her chest while his hands smoothed up and down her back and across her hips.

Her hands held his head still for a moment, keeping him in between her breasts. She let her fingers curl into his hair, massaging his scalp. Silent and unmoving, Sherlock looked down at the man before her. Ian wrapped his arms around her and held her close, nuzzling the skin over her sternum and along the sides of her breasts with tenderness and reverence, his breath slow and steady. When she held his head still and slid her fingers through his curls, he tipped his head up, propping his chin at the tip of her sternum and gazing up at her.

“John wouldn’t have been able to do this for me,” she murmured, “You’re right. He loves me and would have treated me as a delicate flower. If it had been anything else, any other kind of attack, he would have been able to do it. But not after…” He pressed a kiss to her skin and rested his chin again. His fingers idly slid along her waist and listened to her speak.

“I know I said I’d make you choose. But if he can’t give you something you need, I won’t deny you.” He turned his head and nuzzled the side of one breast, then the other, enjoying the scent of her skin and the feel of her hands in his hair.

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” She knew he wouldn’t deny her. He wasn’t that kind of man. He knew how to share, how to separate sex from love. But for John, it was different. “And I hate to say it, but I might love him as well…in my own way. I need him.”

“Why would you hate to say it? If you love each other, that would be a good thing would it not?” He sat back from her, reaching to take her hands from his head and kissing the pulse point on both wrists. “You’re afraid of hurting him, aren’t you?” He scooted back on the bed and arranged himself to lay down, tugging her hand to join him. Sherlock crawled on to of him, resting her weight on his body.

“I’m not a good partner for a romantic relationship. I’m selfish, inconsiderate, rude….and I won’t change,” she said quietly. Ian tucked one arm under his head, the other draped around her, fingers idly playing in the ends of her dark curls, twisting the ends and giving gentle tugs.

“I can see where that complicates things. John seems the marrying sort. He’s a good man, truly cares about you and is completely equipped mentally and physically to protect and take care of you.”

“He’s also the father type,” Sherlock looked away, “and that’s…out of the question.” How could she be a mother? Genetically, it would be good to leave behind progeny but to actually raise a child with her lifestyle….That was a risk she couldn’t take.

“Well, we hardly know each other so I’m in no place to say anything really, but you do have a few years to think about it one way or the other,” he said with a shrug. “As I said, I won’t make you choose. John is a good man but I understand why you’d be reluctant to give yourself to him, and I can see him being the sort that would rather put you under a glass dome than let you be the woman you need and want to be.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she interjected without hesitation. “John accepts me for who and what I am. But he also knows that when it comes to myself, I can make some very, very poor decisions.” Like the drugs, or running after criminals alone… or running after Moriarty.

“He’s the only one that knows when to stop me. He’s the only one that I’ll let that happen.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “And that’s why I need him. I trust him with my life…just like I trust you with my body.”

Ian nodded. He’d been front-row-center when she demonstrated what had to have been one of the poorest of poor decisions about her own wellbeing and for that he was glad she had John. Soldier, doctor, and one of, what he figured, a very small number of people capable of reasoning with her. He watched her face as she spoke, seeing the affection she felt for John Watson as she spoke of her trust in the man.

If he were less of a man himself, he’d have felt jealous. But, it was as she said – sex and love were two totally different beasts to Ian, and while he could certainly see himself loving a woman like Sherlock, he wasn’t going to throw his lot in with her – While she let him have her body from time to time, her heart definitely belonged to someone else and that was alright by him.

“I’m honored to have that trust, after what you’ve endured,” He said as he slid his fingers down her spine and back up, stroking between her shoulderblades. “As long as you’re happy and safe, I’m happy.” John may not be happy with Sherlock having this arrangement with him, but Ian wasn’t concerned so much for the doctor’s happiness, only as it pertained to Sherlock. Her back arched slightly as he stroked along it and made a small groan of pleasure. She sat up, and brought Ian with her so that she straddled his lap.

“I need you to start touching me more,” she murmured, kissing along his collar. “Please.”

His touches became more deliberate as his long, elegant fingers and broad palms slid over her back, down her sides, along her thighs and down her calves, over the bottoms of her feet. He caressed her bottom, giving the soft globes a squeeze before traveling back up her sides and up to cup and massage her breasts, thumbs flicking her nipples. He leaned in and kissed along her collarbone and up the lovely pale column of her throat, licking the skin and nipping but not enough to leave a mark.

Sherlock sighed as his hands began to travel around her body and soon those sighs turned to soft moans. She began to rock into his touches and touch him in return. Her hips ground into his, feeling him stir beneath her. Letting her hand fall in between them, she tentatively let her fingers wrap around his cock.

Ian was content to just touch her. He would have happily kept his trousers on if she’d asked, because touching and pleasuring her was a joy in and of itself. He gave a soft sigh of pleasure when she grasped his cock, though, more than happy to let her touch and do whatever she needed to feel grounded and in control of herself again. He continued to toy with her breasts, giving her nipples gentle but intentional pinches and tweaks of increasing pressure, waiting for her to tell him to stop or back down. She moaned a bit louder while he played with her breasts, but as soon as it began to feel painful, she put a hand on his wrist.

“No more,” she breathed. “No pain.”

“Alright.” He pressed a kiss to her hand and removed it from his wrist, backing down on his attention. He took his mouth to her instead, letting his tongue and lips work over her nipples one at a time, sucking and flicking and fluttering and blowing cool air across them, his breath steady despite her hand on his length.

“Much better,” Sherlock’s other hand went to rest on the back of his head while the other continued to stroke him. She let her thumb swipe across the tip, smearing the bead of precum down his length for better lubrication.

Ian continued to lap and suck at her breasts, but his hands began to roam again, sliding down her belly to her thighs. Both hands smoothed up the insides of her legs, one moving to rest on her hip, the other slipping between and just stroking back and forth along her labia and the slit between, his thumbtip nudging her clit. She gasped, her hips jerking away as if my instinct. Her fingers grasped at his curls roughly.

“Wait!” Sherlock shut her eyes. Ian was surprised by her pulling away and he raised both hands in surrender.

“Alright. Alright, Sherlock, Shh. I’m sorry. I should have asked,” he said as he put both hands back on her hips and let them rest there. Sherlock rested her head on his shoulder, trying to calm down. Her memories of black leather gloves and a cruel laugh echoed in the back of her mind. No… she wouldn’t let Moriarty in any longer.

“Say something. I need to hear your voice.” He brought his arms up and held her, cradled her head to his shoulder, stroked her curls and her scalp and pressed his head against hers.

“I’m here, Sherlock. It’s me, it’s Ian, and you and I, we’re safe right here,” he murmured in her ear with a tone of tenderness he wasn’t aware he posessed. “I want to make you feel good, Sherlock. I want to take the bad memories and replace them with good. I want you to be able to let go, let me touch you, let me taste you, let me make you come weeping my name in pleasure. My beautiful, strong Sherlock. Will you let me? I understand if you can’t. I truly do. I hope if not today, then soon, because you deserve the feel good.” It was almost ten minutes before the memories passed and she was limp against Ian’s body.

“I want that,” she whispered, “Please…bring pleasure back to my body.” Reaching back to take hold of his hand, Sherlock brought it down between her thighs once more. She kept her hand around his and leaned forward to kiss him once more. Desperately.

He leaned into her kiss and gave back just as desperately, letting their lips crash together, tongues dance and slide and mingle, teeth graze. The one hand stayed at the back of her head, caressing, sinking rhythmically into her hair and soothing over her scalp. With his other hand, allowing it to be led to her sex, he slid his first to fingers along her clit. They spent several minutes just circling it and pressing it and stroking it deeply and purposefully while she adjusted to having his hand there.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmured against her mouth in between rounds of kissing. Sherlock nodded, slowly removing her hand away from his and letting it settle on his shoulder. She needed this. She needed this so much. She needed to know that Moriarty hadn’t broken her that night. There was no way in knowing if she could ever let Ian tie her up again or use a crop to her flesh, but at least…at least let her have this.

He continued slowly, languidly kissing her and touching her, letting his free hand slip down and splay across her back, holding her close while his fingers slid expertly across the little pearl of nerves. Eventually he broke away from her lips and kissed her chin, her jaw, her throat, down across her shoulderblades, and against the center of her chest.

She shuddered against the warm, soft touch of his lips as it travelled down her chest. Letting her head fall back, she moaned once more and shifted her hips into his touch now.

“There you go. Let go, darling. I’ve got you.” He whispered against her sternum as his fingers picked up the pace a little, stroking faster, a little deeper, seeking out the spots that made her squirm with pleasure the most. He was pleased that she was responsive, getting wetter as he kept going.

The warmth began to pool between her legs as he touched her. Sherlock’s nails scratched down his arms and back. The sounds she was making were breathier, needier.

“I want to taste you. I want to lay you across this bed and make you come with my tongue, Sherlock. Can I?” he murmured in her ear. She let out a moan just at the thought of it.

“Yes, Ian, please…” She fell back into his arms.

He cradled her against his body as he twisted them both, sending her onto her back. He kissed her slowly, flicking his tongue against hers before breaking away again, kissing down her body and nesting his shoulders between her thighs. He nuzzled the creamy insides of her thighs and kissed before brushing his nose along her labia and drawing his tongue up the center. He found her clit easily, putting his lips around it and sucking, flicking his tongue exactly as he’d done against hers. The two fingers that had been stroking her clit moved down and just teased her entrance, not moving to penetrate her, merely stroke the the outer rim. Sherlock gasped once more, but this time it was in pleasure.

“Yes….” Both hands found their way to grip the back of his head, keeping him there. The wetness, the heat, the pressure, it was all perfect. She looked down at him, watching hungrily. She wouldn’t look away for this. He looked up, catching her gaze and returning it as his lips and tongue laved over her clit and his fingers teased her. She tasted just as heavenly as he remembered and despite being achingly hard, he could easily lay there between her thighs and devour her all day.

“Do it….make me come,” she begged. She needed it so badly. She needed to know that she was capable of it.

“I’m going to slip my fingers into you, not far, just so. Remember how I could make you come with my fingers?” He slowly pressed in, giving her ample time to back away while his mouth went back to work, eagerly pleasuring her. He felt her tense as he pressed in, but only went until he found the swell of her g-spot, pushing up and massaging it in rhythm with his tongue.

“Ian…” Sherlock groaned and rolled her hips. She didn’t move away from him this time. In fact, her body wanted more. “Right there. Don’t stop.” She was breathing heavily, the muscles in her thighs tightening slightly.

He kept up, exactly as he was doing, remembering what made her writhe. He hummed gently against her clit, his fingertips curling slow circles inside her, waiting for that explosive moment. He could feel her tighten, knew she was close, if she could just let go.

She was right there on the edge. “Please…please-please-please…” Sherlock kept begging, not to Ian exactly but to herself. She just needed to…

It was like a flash of lighting. She came without a sound, the pleasure crashing through her body as it coiled tightly for a few blissful seconds. And then it was gone, leaving her trembling against the mattress.

Ian held Sherlock’s thighs firmly to steady her as she convulsed through her nearly silent climax. He continued to stroke her and lap at her slowly as she powered through it and finally went still, only stopping when she fell limp on the bed. He pressed kisses to her thighs again, licked his fingers clean and swiped at his lips, then lifted himself up and crawled up to stretch out along her side.

“There’s a girl. You did very, very well. How do you feel?” he asked quietly as he smoothed a few sweaty curls up from her brow.

“I’m fine,” she said, licking her lips. It was more than fine. Sherlock hadn’t been sure if she could do that again, if she could handle the exposure, the physical intimacy of it all. She had feared…Jim had taken that from her. “Thank you,” she said, “for everything.” He smiled and kissed her brow, letting his hand slide up and down her middle soothingly, delighting in the little aftershocks that quaked her lower belly still.

“I’m happy to have helped, Sherlock. You deserve to feel good, to indulge. I’m humbled that you’d trust me enough to help you.” Sherlock glanced down to see his cock still hard.

“So do you…” Her hand reached down to stroke it once more. They were both supposed to be having sex, not him just helping her get off. He chuckled and turned on his back, giving her full access.

“Oh, I assure you I already feel very good, and quite indulgent darling,” he purred. “But if you’re up for further contribution obviously I won’t turn you down.”

“It’s not fair if I’m the only one that gets off,” she said, smirking. Leaning over, she began sucking and nipping at his throat. Then, remembering what he had said about biting, Sherlock let her teeth sink into the harder flesh on his shoulder. More than a simple nip, but not enough to leave a mark. Ian let out a low groan, tipping his head to the side and tucking a hand into Sherlock’s hair, letting his fingers slide along the back of her neck.

“Oh… It’s not always about who gets off, Sherlock. An orgasm is fantastic, but it’s just as much the journey as it is the destination.”

“Should I stop then?” she teased, stroking him more firmly now. Sherlock was relaxed and the feel of his sex in her hand was…good.

“Hmmh. If you lost interest I would understand but I certainly don’t want you to stop,” he said as he shifted his hips, pushing up slowly against her palm and letting his legs fall open.

“A simple no would have sufficed,” Sherlock knelt closer and leaned over his prick. She wanted to see if she could….Slowly, she licked the tip of his cock and let the head pass her lips.

“You know neither of us does anything by halves, pet,” he murmured with a groan at the end. His gut swirled at he feel of her mouth on him, and he fought his instinct to hold the back of her head by tucking both hands under his own head, threading his fingers and relaxing back into the pillows. “Feels delicious,” he said as she made progress.

That was a good decision on his end. If his hands went to her head, Sherlock might have bitten down on his cock…too hard to be considered pleasurable at all. She looked up at Ian as she took more of him in, the visual reminder keeping the memories away. She wanted this.

“There’s a girl, just focus on me. It’s just me, and I’m submitting to you. Do you know how powerful you are right now? Listen to my words. I… am submitting myself… to you. You have control. You, Sherlock.” He hadn’t submitted to anyone in years but in an effort to give her her confidence back, he was doing more than just laying back and letting her do what she wanted, he was verbally giving her control over him if she wanted it. He held her gaze and spoke to her in a low, but confident tone. “This is your domain, and you have the control here.”

She shuddered, his words having more of an impact than she would have expecting. That was what had drawn her to him. He wasn’t just a good shag, he knew exactly what she needed. He knew what to say, how to touch, and why she needed what she did. That’s what made him so damn good at his job. Sherlock was able to find a slow rhythm to work with, sucking and licking around his cock. Her hand wrapped gently around his base. He hummed softly and relaxed back into the pillows, laying still and enjoying the feel of her efforts.

“You’re brilliant,” he murmured after a few minutes. “And your tongue is perfect.” She swiped her tongue at just the right perssure alog the ridge of his glans and he moaned, his pulse ratcheting a few points. “Fuck. Sherlock. So perfect.” After a few more minutes of that attention, Sherlock pulled back.

“Sit up,” she ordered. When he had done so, she once again straddled his lap. There was only one thing she hadn’t tried now. “Shit,” she cursed, “I don’t have condoms.” She had never had to keep them in her room. Especially since Ian always had a stash in his office. He sat up as she asked and slid his hands up her sides as she straddled him but he was preparing to stop her just as she stopped herself.

“I’m clean but I don’t ever take a risk,” he said as he pressed a kiss to her chest. “Reach down and fetch my trousers, there’s a brand new one in my wallet.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she muttered. Thank Ian for always being prepared. Sherlock left him long enough to look through his wallet and find the condom before returning to his lap. With steady hands, she ripped the foil and rolled it over him and giving him another firm stroke.

He sighed with a smile as her lovely hands smoothed the condom over him, tipping his head back and indulging in the lean weight of her on top of him. He slid his hands up her back again, and down her sides, to rest on her hips as she prepared to mount him.

She didn’t mount him immediately. With her hands on his shoulders, she lifted her hips rubbed the tip of his cock at ther entrance, like he had done with his fingers earlier before. It had helped last time, and with her body relaxed from her orgasm it was easier for her to finally guide him into her. Very, very slowly.

He left his hands on her hips but only to touch, not pushing or guiding her. It was all up to her, how fast, how deep, how hard, until she told him otherwise. He hummed at the familiar feel of her tight opening taking him in and bit his lip as pleasure tickled his gut.

Once fully seated, Sherlock waited a moment before experimentally moving her hips. She let out a soft moan. It felt good. Right. This wasn’t like what Jim had done, not at all.

“I want you to move. Slowly.”

“Lift yourself up just a bit,” he responded, guiding her hips up until she was halfway off his prick. He shivered as the cool room air struck his warmed flesh but it was soon remedied as he rested on one hand, the other remaining in contact with her side, and lifted his hips slowly, pressing into her. “That alright?”

“Yes,” she gasped, “again.”

He nodded and lowered himself, pulling out and pushing back in again at the same speed and pressure.

“You’re doing very good, Sherlock. I’m proud of you,” he said softly as he pulled out and pushed in a third time.

She dug her nails into his shoulders as he pushed up into her and rest her head on top of his.

“More… Harder.”

“Yes. Tell me how you want it Sherlock. You’re in control, remember? You get to tell me what you want.” He pushed up again, harder this time, not nearly full-strength but he could feel her tense. “Look at me. Keep your eyes on me, Sherlock. Listen to my voice. It’s me, it’s Ian, that’s my cock that you’re letting inside you, it’s me that you’re straddling and fucking.” He pushed up again, with the same force.

“Yes,” she breathed, “Oh God, Ian. Keep going…” Sherlock bit him again, moving her hips with him. “Moan for me. Tell me you like it.” She didn’t want to just take pleasure from him, she wanted to give it as well.

He pushed up into her again, increasing the pressure once more, and he let out a genuine moan for her, groaning her name as her teeth grazed his skin.

“Fuck. Sherlock. You are magnificent. You feel.. so fucking good. Sherlock. I’ll never get tired of this,” he said, barely conscious of the words as he worked into a steady pace, the same pressure, in and out, snapping his hips at just the last second, pushing his length deep with each stroke. Sherlock moaned louder now.

“Keep talking, Ian. I need to hear your voice.” Her sweat mingled with his as she pressed up harder against him, wrapping her legs around her tight. As he thrusted into her harder now, Sherlock could feel herself getting close again.

“I can feel you getting tight. I love the way you feel, Sherlock, just the right fit,” he said as he picked up the pace just a little. “Will you come for me again, come on my cock? Will you ride me until I come too?” His hand slid around to rest on the small of her back, guiding her to rock against him as he slid up into her, pushing him deeper and harder with each stroke. “Oh. Sherlock. Fuck, yes. Fuck me.”

It was easier this time for her to come, moving almost erratically on top of him. She cried out Ian’s name, dragging her nails down his back with red streaks. Even as she came down, Sherlock kept moving with him. She wanted him to come now.

The feel of her gripping him, her nails down his shoulders, and the cry of his name falling from her lips had him pushing himself to let go. He held her hips and pushed himself up into her faster, harder, trying to find just the right angle and pace. It had been a while since he had anyone this way, but oh - Oh… There it was. His balls tightened and pleasure coiled in his belly as he felt it building.

“Fuck. Sherlock. I need to- God..” He shuddered as he came, splling into her with only the barrier of the condom between them. “Christ. Oh. I needed that,” He chuckled as he came down from the pleasure high, rocking Sherlock a few more strokes before stopping her.

Sherlock kissed down the scratches she made on his shoulders, running her tongue over them. “I did too,” she murmured, letting his cock slip out of her. But she didn’t get off of his lap. Instead, she rested in his arms not wanting to leave the contact and warmth of their bodies. He was content to sit there holding her, so he leaned back against her headboard and wrapped his arms around her, cradling her against his bare chest, sweat mingling between them and the air cooling their skin.

“You really are fantastic, you know,” he said as he twirled a few loose curls between his fingers. “And I am very proud of you for taking the initiative and taking control.”

“I’m not a victim,” she said quietly. With all of her time at the Yard, she could spot the women who had been raped and abused. Even the children…She knew the signs and the symptoms. But this was her body, her mind. “I won’t let myself become one.”

“Good. Own it, let it fuel your fire, but don’t let it consume you. You’re strong. You’re confident. You’re powerful. And the motherfucker that did this to you is dead, at your own hand.” He reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face, bringing her up to look at him. “You’re a beautiful woman and I am proud to know you and I won’t let you become a victim either.”

“I know.” Sherlock leaned in to kiss him chastely on the lips. Another few minutes and the cooled sweat was beginning to chill her. She finally rolled off of him and picked up her dressing gown, wrapping herself up in its blue silk. “Are you hungry?” she asked. Right then, she had a sudden appetite. Maybe something sweet. Once she was up, he dealt with the spent condom in her bathroom wastebasket, and stepped into his pants and trousers, leaving his shirt off.

“I’m not extraordinarily hungry but if you’ve got anything in I won’t turn down a snack. A good shag does tend to work up an appetite doesn’t it?” He stepped in front of her and rested his hands on her shoulders, kissing her forehead as he’d taken to doing. “Don’t go making any special efforts on my part though.”

“I was just going to throw you a bag of crisps,” Sherlock smirked and walked out towards the kitchen. Opening the cupboard, she pulled out a bag of crisps for Ian. Then she dug out her secret supply of chocolate she had hidden behind the preserved pig fetuses. After taking a bite, Sherlock heard the door downstairs open and close, footsteps coming upstairs. John.

He chuckled as the packet of crisps hit him in the chest. He grimaced a little at the samples she kept in her cupboards and wondered how John got on with it all. Speaking of…

“Oh… seems we’ve got company,” he said as he dropped the bag on the table. “Shall I go and finish dressing then? He murmured, already starting to make his way to her bedroom.

“No,” Sherlock said, “I’m not letting you hide while I have to explain to him why I asked you over and have sex.”

When John entered the flat to find Sherlock and Ian both in the kitchen half naked, it didn’t take him long to figure out what they were doing. “Right… sorry for not calling ahead. Didn’t think you’d have company.” He nodded over at Ian. Then the awkward silence settled.

“It was last minute,” Ian responded with a shrug. He wasn’t smug, just factual. It was plainly obvious that they’d had sex, no sense denying it, but there was also no sense in being a dick about it either. “Hello John,” he added after a moment, trying for politeness. It was his flat too, after all.

“I should go. Appointments later, I need to go home and shower and change,” he said vaguely although everyone in the room knew what it meant. He pushed a kiss against Sherlock’s jaw and gave her side a squeeze before walking back to the bedroom to put himself back together in preparation for leaving.

This was exactly what she was trying to avoid. With Ian in the room, Sherlock had hoped she’d have a referee or barrier of some sort.

“So…” John licked his lips, not sure what to say.

“I needed it.” Sherlock said, “I could trust him and it wasn’t like we were doing anything…extra. Just plain sex.”

“That really doesn’t make me feel better. You need more time to heal and—” John stopped himself, “No, you’re right. You look better in fact. He does seem to give you what you need.”

Meanwhile in the bedroom, Ian found his shirt and put his socks and shoes on, then gathered up the wallet that had been discarded during their coupling. He was back out within a few minutes but already the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“John,” he said, stepping in as he heard the tail end of the conversation. “Don’t do this. Don’t be upset with her. She needed to take control again. She knew she could get exactly what she needed from me, no more no less. She’s still healing but now she’s got a bit more of her confidence back. If anyone understands that power exchange, it’s me. That’s not me being cocksure, that’s just the nature of my business.” John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’m not upset,” he hissed. Ian’s presence wasn’t helping. He knew, he knew that Ian was what Sherlock needed. It didn’t make him feel any better. Those nights when she was in bed by his side, he had hoped meant something more.

“John,” Sherlock said, “you’re an idiot. I can practically read you thoughts.” She crossed the room, passing Ian without a second glance, and kissed John on the mouth. It wasn’t a deep, heated kiss but it certainly wasn’t the chaste one she had given Ian only ten minutes before. When she pulled back, John stared at her, totally shocked.

Ian stood back and watched the exchange, a little grin on his lips. They were both idiots, and maybe he was a bit of an idiot too. But maybe, just maybe, this situation was unique enough that they could all work something out. He wouldn’t deny Sherlock if she wanted him to come around or if she wanted to climb in bed with him, so John was going to have to be the one to grow up and at least try to understand. He would leave that to Sherlock to explain, though.

“She needs you just as much as she needs me, John. There’s no reason we can’t both be a part of her life,” he said simply. “If you two are going to be alright alone, I really must get going darling,” he said as he stepped up next to her, sliding her hair off her shoulder and giving the back of her neck a squeeze.

“Goodbye, Ian,” she said, “until next time.”

“And at your place,” John commented. Sherlock turned her head back to him. Did that mean he was okay with this? “God knows when she’s going to call you next. I don’t want to walk in to find you two snogging on the couch.” Or more, but he wasn’t going to mention that.

“John I assure you anything that Sherlock and I get up to would be done behind closed doors in the privacy of a bedroom. Still, I respect that this is your space too. Sherlock, text me whenever you need me.” He gave a nod to both of them and took his leave, descending the stairs and out into the cool evening air, making his way home and then back to the club.


End file.
